Infrared
by RaineMcLaren
Summary: Sequel to Desdemona. Every action has consequences, even heroic ones. Does evil deserve justice? Who lives, who dies, final chapters! I have no affiliation with CBS or CSI, Please review! Thankies!
1. Eternity

((**_Infrared_** is a sequel to the story, **_Desdemona_**))

"What the hell was that!" Chris whispered fiercely, squinting into a small hand held video monitor. The rainbow of colors was stationary, shapes discernable. His eyes kept flicking back and forth from the monitor to the wanly lit field of headstones in front of them. A surge of adrenaline flushed through his system. He **_had_** seen something! Finally!

Seth leaned over Chris' shoulder to peer carefully into the small screen of the thermal scope; everything was still. "I don't see anything."

Their eyes flicked up from the monitor to travel over the weedy cemetery; it was choked with overgrown headstones and brambles, surrounded thickly in dead or dying trees. Their powerful spotlights cast a wane light over the field. Secluded and forgotten, it was prime for urban legends and lore that had ultimately attracted them.

"On the dead-zone, over there…" he pointed again to a patch of dirt. Vegetation refused to grow there, the trees around it dying as well; a regarded hot spot for paranormal activity. They'd gotten some odd readings from it on an earlier visit. "Something flew up from the ground. I got it on the monitor."

They both leaned toward the hand held screen, jumping back as the unknown event spritzed across the panel again.

"You saw that right?" Chris asked, out of breath.

They both stared into the cemetery.

Seth nodded. "Kill the spotlights. Start taking pictures, no flashes, on all cameras," Seth's voice was quieter than usual over his walkie-talkie, controlled and almost nervous. He kept staring intently at the dead zone.

Another team member, Eduardo looked at his friend Regina, and then flipped the switch at their base camp up the hill. As the spotlights faded, their breath calmed to a nervous quiver. The intense black closed in, lingering with a soft glow in the sky from the city lights reflecting off the clouds. The darkness became thick, palpable, and almost alive as their eyes adjusted.

Regina began to take pictures into the darkness on several variations of cameras.

Chris was watching the screen intently.

"What do you have?" Eduardo's voice came over the walkie-talkie.

They could hear the soft clicks of Regina's camera shutter in the distance.

"We don't know, we're twenty feet from the dead zone," Chris whispered back, walking forward. "Something flew up from the ground, super fast, we read it on the scope. We're moving forward to take some better readings."

The trees beyond the dead zone began to move. They both stopped, looking from the monitor into the field ahead of them.

"My EMF is going crazy," Seth continued, his foot bumped a headstone under the brush. His voice was audibly shaken. "Temp's dropped, you can feel it."

"What **_is_** that?" Chris looked up again from the monitor into the darkness, his words intensely articulated. Several shadows were moving from the trees at a slow procession toward them. They read on the scope, some definitely human shaped. His breath was coming in fast gulps. Looking over his shoulder, Seth was already running up the hill toward Eduardo and Regina.

Chris panicked, dropping the monitor and delving into total darkness. He backed toward the base camp, turning and running through the darkness. The sound of footsteps and crackling brush behind him sped up his gate, boot smacking the front of a head stone to send him tripping into the air from the force of his speed.

Landing hard on his stomach, he gasped for breath, pain tearing through his back as he saw two humanoid shadows rush past him up the hill.

"Help me!" he screamed to his friends, his shirt in shreds. The pain was unbearable, his skin flaying in strips as he struggled. Warm blood trickled down his sides. Teeth tore into his arm. He fought fiercely with the attacker, jaws releasing as the dark shadow abruptly lunged for his face.

His cries for his friends suddenly became silent, equipment from the base camp also suddenly quiet; the screech of tires breaking the calm momentarily before fading to the distance.

The sound of gurgling blood died off to nothing.

The field of headstones became deathly still.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Grissom's mag-light traveled over the headstones, red and blue lights swirling through the darkness. "Who called it in?"

"Anonymous tip to 911," Brass answered.

"Ghost hunters," Greg said, his light moving across the equipment at the base camp. Tables were organized with notebooks, film, and other equipment. "Man, this is high end stuff. Scopes, night vision, hydrometers, ion counters."

"Ghost hunters?" Brass blinked, looking to Greg. "This equipment looks scientific."

Greg scoffed. "Ghost hunters are scientific." He slid on a pair of gloves, kneeling over a body. "Just because ghosts haven't been proven real doesn't mean they don't exist."

"The great white whale," Grissom commented.

"Chasing something that doesn't exist," Greg smirked. " I know **_Moby Dick_**. You thought I didn't? Where would I be if scientists didn't chase something that people thought didn't exist?" He tweezed something off of the body and looked at it closely as an example. "Processing what people suspected was DNA?" he finished, dropping it into a bindle.

Brass pursed his lips and nodded. "Point taken. But it doesn't mean Casper killed these kids."

"Impossible," Grissom started. "Casper was a friendly ghost, it was his three uncles who weren't." Grissom knelt next to the other body, smiling gently, "However, it looks like you didn't read **_Moby Dick_**."

Brass blinked at him. "Huh?"

"The whale didn't kill Ahab, the quest is ultimately what did him in," Grissom finished, his flashlight shining on a distinct bullet hole in one boy's temple. "And the whale did exist."

Brass' eyebrows rose over his slightly rolled eyes as he took a drink of his coffee.

Sara was already walking into the thick of the cemetery with her flashlight, shining it across the broken, forgotten, run down and vandalized headstones. Her face was serious, set as her mind rolled over her thoughts; what a waste. Buried in the ground in all your finery, for what? So some high school kids could graffiti your headstone and leave beer bottles instead of flowers?

Her lips pressed together as she stepped over another vandalized stone.

The floodlights suddenly fired, slicing through the rotating red and blue lights to illuminate the entire secluded and forgotten graveyard. Sara flinched slightly at the light, continuing her search for evidence.

The lights washed across the tips of the tall grass, the ground still in shadow. She focused her mag beam toward the ground. She'd walked the entirety of the cemetery, following a trail through the grass from the edge of the trees. Setting a yellow number next to what looked like a broken camera, she took several pictures. A strike point was on the edge of a headstone, glass shards littered around it. She took several more pictures, the steely smell of blood sharp in her nostrils.

Her light continued its sweep through the grass, finally shining on a young man. Yellowed grass around him was soaked in blood; face twisted into a visage of pure horror, fear. Blood was everywhere.

"I got another DB," she yelled up the hill.

Grissom stood, shining his light across the headstones. "Well that's redundant," Grissom said with a glimmer of humor in his voice. "Perfect place for the dead."


	2. Ghosts and Doppelgangers

Nick's fingers caressed his case's handle, eyes half closed as he listened. The sound seemed to vibrate through his body, a distinct chill rushing through his chest. It brought tears to his eyes, a floating sensation to his brain he'd never known. It was beautiful, and it had distracted him perhaps more than it should have. The doors had been wide open as he passed, spilling precious air conditioning into the sun scathed sidewalk to air the lobby floor as it was waxed. That brilliant echo of sound and cool breeze from the dark lobby doors had ultimately urged him to walk in. He'd wandered in through the dry part of the foyer to the back of the symphony hall.

Just for a second.

The music suddenly stopped, the irate and blistering criticism of a conductor snapping his consciousness back to reality. They had only been rehearsing, but it sounded so perfect to him.

His pager went off, vibrating silently against his hip. Picking up his phone, he dialed carefully, speaking quietly to Catherine. "You said it wasn't an emergency. I'm a couple blocks away. I had to park and walk."

She continued to talk to him as he held the phone out from his ear with an annoyed expression. He blinked several times, taking a deep breath before turning back to the lobby. His foot paused before stepping onto dark tile that looked a bit too cloudy.

He was now waxed in. "Dammit, I'm such an idiot," he snapped under his breath. He was stuck until it dried. "I'll be there, I'm on my way," he finally said to Catherine.

"This is a closed rehearsal!" the conductor's voice was sharp, hearing Nick's quiet phone conversation.

Nick blinked from the back of the hall, casting a glance over his shoulder as he flipped his cell closed.

"I'm… sorry, I just heard… the doors were open," he stammered, feeling his face flush as a hundred pairs of eyes focused on him. "I'm stuck until the wax dries."

"Buy a ticket like everyone else," he snapped darkly in a deeply thick accent and turned back to his less than enthusiastic followers. "That's it for today," he finished. "Disappointing! Do better tomorrow!"

The room broke its stoic attention and became a soft murmur of complaints and after rehearsal plucking. Nick stood at the edge of the door for fifteen minutes, watching it impatiently. His eyes wandered back and forth from the stage to the lobby.

He was pissed at himself, this was penance for his curiosity. Maybe he'd wandered in to understand, remind him, to stay close, remember the lessons. He pushed the thoughts aside; he'd spent a year pushing the thoughts aside. Letting go was just too hard.

………………………………"_you're a kid, a little boy with a gun"_

The words struck the front of his brain sharply, without warning. He suddenly needed to get out, get away from the sound that had drawn him in. His chest was tight, teeth clenching; it felt like a panic attack. The growl at the back of his throat was audible as he peered out into the lobby again, touching the floor with his toe

Thank god it was dry.

He quickly crossed the entrance hall, sliding his sunglasses on before stepping into the blanching sun.

"He yells at everybody like that, you're lucky you don't have to come back tomorrow," the voice was light, a soft English accent on the edges.

The voice chilled his blood.

Nick's world swirled and came to a screeching halt, focusing to a pinpoint. A dead silence hung in the air, sounds from the street muted as his breath became hot in his ears. Nostrils flared above tightly pressed lips as he looked over his shoulder, foot paused before stepping out the door. The rush of cold air from the lobby through the doorway ruffled his cropped hair, the back of his neck prickling.

Disbelieving eyes looked over the top of sunglasses through the dim foyer.

A woman stood at the box office in the lobby, handing something to the secretary inside.

The lobby was dark, the deep colored and shiny mahogany walls picking up the new sheen from the floor. It reflected light from the sidewalk outside off her face, the soft illumination from within the box office making her face glow. She slung the black strap of a violin case over her shoulder, smiling at the secretary before tucking the tickets given to her in the side pocket of her case.

She was very pretty, features supple and graceful. Black hair was in a trendy, short razored cut at her cheeks. Dark brown eyes watched him through the shadowed lobby as the green linen dress she wore swung gracefully at her ankles. She was tall, yet petite, black-laced sandals on meticulously pedicured feet. Her face…

Her face.

His lips were moving but nothing came out, eyes focused on a silver chain glinting at her collarbone as she walked toward him. It disappeared beneath the v-neck of her dress, along with whatever was on the end of it.

She stopped next to him, sliding on her own sunglasses.

"I hate it when they wax the lobby, the smell sticks in my nose for days," she said as she stepped out past him onto the blanched sidewalk, strong fingers resting on the strap to her case.

He watched her with distant eyes, the tan skin, the high cheekbones; his eyes wandered over the violin on her shoulder. She was speaking to him again, but her voice was lost in his ears.

"Are you okay?"

He blinked finally, an easy smile spreading across his face. "Yah, hey I gotta go."

"Sure, nice meeting you…um," she fished.

"Nick," he said finally, still studying her face. "Nick Stokes."

"Nice to meet you Nick," she turned to cross the street.

He finally regained his senses with a stinging mental slap.

"I didn't catch your name," he asked after her as she moved past a stationary taxi.

"I didn't give it to you," she smiled slightly and raised her eyebrow at him. "You'll have to buy a ticket like everyone else." Tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, she turned and lost herself in the crowd and jammed traffic.

His lips parted to say something, but couldn't find the words. Brow lowered to almost a confused scowl as the pager at his side jumped to attention again.

"Crap," he hissed, springing to a fast walk.

He slowed momentarily, casting a long glance into the crowd across the street before he began moving again at a fast jog.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

"Damn," Catherine said under her breath, looking at her watch. She flipped her cell open, speed dialing a number.

Warrick squinted at her through his sunglasses, the collar of his white shirt ruffling at his neck as the wind picked up, blowing heat scorched air into his face. Fingers gripped tighter to his case, other hand touching his ID nonchalantly. The sun was starting to set but it was still unbelievably hot.

"Hey, I got paged, can you pick up Lindsey from ballet class," she half-smiled at him as she spoke to her sister on the phone, pushing a lock of hair from her face. "Okay, thanks. Hey after, just grab some dinner and give me a call. I should be out by then. Uh-huh… okay, thanks sis, I owe you one. Bye bye." She paged Nick again.

"Killers don't have schedules like we do," he commented, following her into the department store.

"At least none that I've met," she quirked, "maybe we should make the suggestion." Her face frowned slightly, looking across the racks of clothing. Nick was nowhere to be seen. "Where is he?" she said particularly to herself as she approached the dressing rooms, setting down her case and introducing herself to the security guard.

They started a once over, noting the strange position of the body. The older teenage girl was huddled in the corner of the dressing room, clutching her backpack protectively. Catherine stepped away to speak with several employees.

Warrick worked alone for almost fifteen minutes before Nick weaved amongst the racks of clothes, holding up the case to keep it from getting caught.

"Where've you been?" Warrick said under his breath as Nick set his case down next to him. He looked up at him for a moment.

"Sorry… there was an accident, traffic was completely jammed. I had to park and walk three blocks." Nick was already sliding on a pair of gloves.

"Hey man, you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Worse…" Nick shook his head, dimples flicking as he pursed his lips.

"Ex-girlfriend?" Warrick grinned, leaning over the body and taking a swab.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Nick smiled easily, but it was false, "What do we have?"

"Regina Dalton. Wallet in her pocket, shot at point blank range in the temple inside this dressing room. Nobody saw or heard anything. Found with stolen merchandise in her backpack, along with a lot of cash." He handed Nick her bag to start processing.

"Silencer?"

"Probably."

"That's high end stuff to pop a teenage girl. What about her, a shoplifter?"

"Or runaway. Definitely running from something," Warrick finished, pulling out a pair of car keys from her pocket. "I wonder if we can match these to a car outside. Looks like she was collecting everything she could to get the hell out of dodge. "

"She didn't make it," Catherine commented.

Warrick looked under the bench in the corner of the dressing room, gingerly picking up a camera.

"Whatcha got there?" Nick asked.

"An expensive piece," he commented. "Busted lens, just tossed under there like trash." He frowned as the backpiece flipped open, looking to Nick. "Memory card's gone, door's broken." He handed it to Catherine in the cramped dressing room.

"Someone was in a hurry to get this card out," she said.

Warrick leaned over the girl, reaching down to her hair, pulling out a bramble of some kind. He bagged it. "She's a mess, dirt under her fingernails, her shoes are dusty. I have a feeling whoever killed her got what they wanted in that camera. Cash is still here, car keys. Whoever shot her knew what he was after, then killed her to cover their tracks."

"Definitely running from something," Nick surmised, looking at him.

"Aren't we all…" Warrick commented absently. He looked up as Catherine's phone sprung to life.

She answered it.

"What do you mean she wasn't there?" Catherine's voice pierced their thoughtfulness; calm forced on her features. She listened intently to her hysterical sister on the other end of the cell phone. "Where else would she be?"

Her questions were filled with nonchalant hope, almost a teasing tone. Lips began to purse, then press into a thin line as she listened, fierce panic as she listened to her sister.

She'd heard only two words:

…lindsey…

…missing…

"I have to go," her voice was barely there, her phone sliding slowly from her ear. Facial features suddenly curled into a severe expression of protective rage. She'd already removed her gloves, handing them off. Her face was ruthless as she stalked toward the door, car keys already out and cell phone dialed in the other.

"Catherine?" Warrick asked, twirling a brush.

"She looked like she was about to kill someone," Nick paused.

"Dammit," Warrick got up, moving after her. "Her sister was supposed to pick up Lindsey, sounds like someone else got there first…"


	3. Hole in the Wall

Sarah stood in the overgrown driveway, looking across the dark cemetery. The floodlights lit up only so much, the rest shadowy and quiet. She reached up and wiped the back of her hand on her forehead. It was so hot.

Lindsey was fresh on her mind. Grissom had just called her. She'd wanted to go back, but Grissom had insisted she finish her follow up.

Poor Catherine, her lips moved.

"Haven't you cleared the scene yet?" a uniform asked uneasily as he stood near his cruiser. He wiped his own perspiration on the back of his hand.

"What's the matter?" she held up the camera and took several pictures. "Afraid of the dark?"

"Not really keen on spending the night sitting in my car securing a cemetery crime scene."

Sara grinned slightly. "There's nothing here that can hurt you."

"Something killed those kids. They were ghost hunting, I'd say they found some."

Sara smiled slightly, moving into the tall grass toward the spot where they had found the third boy. There were definitely distinct paths through the yellowed weeds. Something had walked from the woods and chased the boys up the hill. A smaller path had been worn toward the one boy who had been killed in the field.

"Ghosts don't wear paths through grass," she said to the uniform, walking again toward the woods. After a day in the stifling sun, they were more distinct now than they had been the night before, and were definitely emanating from the woods. She didn't find anything distinctive yesterday; she was going to recheck her original thoughts.

"Where are you going?" he asked nervously.

"I studied the cemetery on a map, there should be a service road beyond those trees. I'm going to see where the 'ghosts' came from."

The uniform looked over his shoulder and then pulled a mag-light from his cruiser, moving after her into the darkness.

Sara moved her flashlight back and forth in the woods; the floodlights did nothing to permeate the only section of the graveyard trapped completely under trees. Broken and vandalized stones dotted the darkness as her flashlight shone on them, buried beneath decades of brush and foliage. No beer bottles were around these stones; thrill seekers didn't seem brave enough to hang out in the woods after dark. Graves were sunken into the ground, indicative of the coffins beneath the dirt collapsing, or people using the tree cover to conceal them as they dug around.

She shone her light on several broken branches and pushed further into the darkness, smiling slightly as the uniform behind her swore and got caught on brush. She pursed her lips, seeing a hole in the chain link fence to a dark deserted road beyond. Taking a few pictures, she moved closer. A distinct shrap of cloth was caught on the edge of the chain link fence, she bindled it carefully.

She ducked and made her way through the hole onto the isolated dirt road. There were tire tracks near the fence, dusty footprints around the hole. She took detailed pictures, pausing to look up and down the dark road.

Pausing again, she resisted the urge to look over her shoulder as her fingers slid toward her gun. Chewing slightly on her lip, she turned and made her way back, getting the distinct feeling she was being watched.

The uniform stuck close to her as she moved back up the hill and paced the overgrown driveway, taking more pictures.

"Like I said, ghosts don't make paths through grass and brush."

"Zombies do."

"Zombies…" she laughed, kneeling. "Zombies don't leave tire tracks."

"There wasn't a car on site when the paramedics got here."

Sara thought a moment. "These teenagers got out here somehow with all their equipment, and whoever called 911 knew they were here." She stood, following a set of tire tracks that looped around toward the other driveway. She took several more pictures. "I think there was someone else here, saw what was happening, and took off. Whatever killed these boys came through the fence in the woods, and escaped the same way to a waiting car."

"Great, can we go now?" he asked, ready to snap the police tape.

She chuckled. "We can go now."

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

"No surprises with what killed this one," Dr. Robbins dropped a bullet into a stainless steel tray.

"Execution style,"Grissom said.

"Pretty much. No defensive wounds. His legs were scraped up pretty badly, but nothing below the ankles; it's consistent with running through a heavily brushy area with no leg protection. His socks and shoes protected his ankles and feet, but he was definitely running for his life. Here's something you might find interesting," he raised the boy's arm slightly. "There are abrasions on his elbows, a bruise to the back of the head. David also scraped his nails and pulled some plant material from his hair."

"Hmm," Grissom looked carefully at the scratches on his legs. "He was a specific target."

"I'd say he was chased, then hit on the back of the head. He fell, scraping his elbows and knees, and then was shot point blank, there's GSR around the wound and a burn mark on his skin from the muzzle. COD gunshot to the head," he finished, covering him up. "This was the second of the duo found together at the top of the hill." He uncovered him. "His pants and underwear were soaked in urine; otherwise, not a mark on him. His heart fibrillated and stopped."

"Scared to death," Grissom said absently.

Robbins nodded. "There was some indication of a heart murmur, probably undiagnosed. That contributed to the fibrillation that ultimately gave him a heart attack."

"From the marks in the grass at the crime scene, it seems the two boys were walking toward the woods; this one was at the control center, or 'base camp'. The other two boys got spooked, ran up the hill toward the base camp. One made it, one didn't."

"I'd be scared to death too if I had to witness what happened to his two friends. This one watched his two friends die, one mauled, one shot. Hunting for ghosts, not sure what was what, scared him to death."

"Mauled?"

"Mauled," Robbins started. He covered up one teenager and went to the third.

Grissom's brow rose.

"Not sure what did it, but it was vicious. Tore into his calf first from the back, then his shoulders. Arms were heavily damaged with defensive wounds but the bite at the carotid is what did him in."

"That's a lot of damage," Grissom leaned over him, "with a small bite."

"Perhaps a small to medium sized dog, we're probably looking from the pit bull terrier variation; the easiest choice possibly because of the damage height to the leg muscle tissue. A larger dog would have bitten higher, and the bites would have been larger. A larger dog puppy with vicious tendency could have conceivably done this; pit bulls aren't always the culprits. No doubt though, the other boys watched this happen."

Grissom looked up as Sara moved in. "I'll take a mold of the bite, see if we can get a specific breed."

"Lividity was fixed, they died where they laid; nobody moved them," Robbins finished.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" Grissom asked, looking at Sara over his glasses.

"I think we have a fourth ghost hunter," she said simply. "I found a set of tire tracks not accounted for in the emergency vehicles. There wasn't a vehicle when the first crew got there. I think someone fled the scene."

"Explains the anonymous tip to 911," Grissom commented.

"But who sees this happen, calls 911 and then doesn't come forward?" she asked.

"Someone who's got something to hide," Grissom finished. "Start recreating the base camp and finish printing. See if you can get any more information about the 911 caller. Greg is going through their equipment and documenting their readings and pictures."

"I found something else interesting. I went through the woods at the edge of the cemetery; there was a hole in the fence leading to a service road. I think our killers knew they were there, and came after them. I got a small piece of cloth from the fence, tire tracks and footprints."

"Perhaps our fourth member had something to do with it?"

She nodded, sliding her hands in her back pockets.

Grissom examined the boys a moment, noticing Sara hadn't left. He looked up at her, sliding his glasses off gently. "Nothing yet," he said calmly. "If Catherine wants us at her house, she would tell us. Her family is there; sometimes more people just complicate things. Day shift and PD processed the scene. Brass is with her, specialists for this situation, they are doing all they can. We need to stick with our duties and be ready to help if they ask."

"I guess no news is good news," she gave him a dry smile. "First 24 hours."

"Not always."


	4. Ka Boom

Nick held his breath, eyes dangerously focused as the trigger pulled again, again and again. Every time he squeezed it, the strength of the weapon reacted with his hand. It was addictive, fingers tightening around the weapon protectively as if it was becoming one with his arm. Controlling the recoil made him feel stronger, safer, and powerful.

"Nick!"

Nick blinked, lowering the weapon and sliding off his ear muffler.

"Cripes man, you're a firing machine." Warrick said, pulling off his ear muffler. "I must have paged you three times, I've been standing here almost five minutes."

Nick hit the button and the target slid forward. "I couldn't sit in the break room anymore waiting for word on Lindsey." He secured his gun and pulled the target down.

"Damn, practice much?" Warrick commented on the precise aim.

Nick grinned, "I'll take that as a compliment."

"You lost your flinch, good job."

Nick shrugged, "Didn't notice. Nothing yet?" he asked.

Warrick shook his head. "I just talked to Grissom. Catherine's been put on leave, Grissom is supervising the department store case for us until things are resolved. Our shift starts now."

Nick went to work cleaning his area and sweeping his brass forward. He returned the eye and ear protection. Warrick sat on the counter, the range suddenly quiet. Nick had been the only one there.

Nick put his hands on his hips. "I feel like we should be doing something for her."

"There isn't anything to do, day shift and PD has it. We're supposed to keep working on the department store case when our shift starts."

Nick chewed on his lip a moment. "You know… she saved my ass before when I screwed up, I feel like we should be helping her."

"There's a big difference though Nick," Warrick started. "She didn't screw up, and this is about a kid not a job. We do this one by the book. We can review all the evidence, but we gotta stay hands off. If they need help, we'll be the first they contact."

Nick's fingers smoothed the flat spot from the ear protection out of his hair. "Poor Catherine, how's she holding up?"

"She's with her mom and sister at their house, waiting. Brass has been with her all day, a half dozen uniforms waiting by a phone."

"Maybe I'll go see her after work today."

"And say what? Sorry your daughter's missing?" Warrick's look was grim.

"I don't know…" Nick was annoyed. "Offer some comfort, something."

"If you had something happen, would you want a million people around you?"

Nick's glare was long.

Warrick sighed tightly. He'd been an ass and he knew it. "Man, I'm sorry. It's just…" he crossed his arms as he stood.

Nick's silence was heavy as he stared at the floor.

"You never talk about it," Warrick said quietly. "Then you're down here almost everyday shooting at paper targets. Sometimes I wonder if you're okay."

"I'm fine," Nick moved up the stairs.

"You sure?" his glare was skeptical.

"I'm sure man, stop buggin' me about it."

"You need a girl," Warrick said, following up the stairs and trying to lighten the mood.

"I met a girl," he said quietly.

"Is that why you were late yesterday?"

Nick sent him a dry stare over his shoulder.

"You never cease to amaze me my friend," he grinned. "She cute? Tell me about her."

They walked down the hall toward the lobby.

"Dark hair, tan, about my height, tight…"

Warrick grinned slightly. "Say no more… What does she do?" Warrick looked at his watch. Catherine had gotten the call exactly twenty-four hours ago. He sighed through his nose, more concerned than he let on. Maybe they should go and see her.

"A musician?" Nick said absently as his brow furled, his eyes focused on the lobby.

"What's her name?" Warrick pressed.

"What the hell?" Nick moved at a distinct jog toward the lobby.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Sara paused in the doorway, watching Grissom hold a grayish mold up to the light, his glasses down his nose. She knocked slightly on the doorframe. He held up several more for comparison.

"You're here early," she commented.

"I wanted to be here in case we were needed," he said, focusing on the molds.

"In case Catherine called."

"Yah," he said almost inaudibly, looking at another mold.

The pause was long, her fingers sliding into her back pockets as she leaned in the doorway. If there was anything else, he would tell her. "Three dead teenagers, four sets of prints on the equipment, no hits for the fourth. 911 call made from a payphone near the intersection where the cemetery is located. I'm having the cameras pulled right now for any vehicle identification as well as a picture of the driver making the call."

"Alleged murderer of victim #1," he started, holding up the mold. "A pit bull breed."

Sara blinked at him. "A pit bull?"

"Not **_a_** pit bull. Pit bull is a generic term for terriers with similar characteristics, but lumped together most people refer to them as pit bulls and mistake the breeds for each other. That's how **_the_** pit bull gets a bad rap," he paused. "However, these molds are definitely from one of those breeds, or a mix. More than likely, the owners think they have a true pit bull, and have trained them to do this kind of damage."

"I'll never understand why people do what they do to their dogs," she said slowly, almost melancholy. "You think he died first?"

He nodded. "He lost a lot of blood, no doubt he died first, if only by several minutes."

"I also got several potential matches on the bullet that killed vic #2. Striations matched the bullets in two other murders within the last six months, allegedly gang related. Could be the same gun. We still need to see what's on those cameras from the boy's equipment at the cemetery; Greg's still working on it. The cloth from the fence is cotton, from a common tee shirt. No epithelials. Not much help there. Tire tracks from the cemetery are inconclusive, too much plant material over the driveway. I got two traces of rubber on the grass, one laid over the other, both traces from a smaller tire currently the one of choice for a Honda Civic. Tracks on the service road are a large SUV, still running the footprints."

"That's a lot of work Sara, did you go home last night?"

"Did you?"

Grissom pursed his lips after a long period of silence, his eyes rested on the phone, then back on Sara. He sighed.

Sara followed the unspoken urge to stay focused on their work.

He set the molds down. "So we have a 'pit bull' mauling, and an execution style murder by potential gang members with a fourth probable victim still out there driving a car with two different tires on the front and back; apparently who knew what was going on quick enough to get in the car and drive away. We need to find person number four," his eyes moved slowly to the door, cocking his head to one side to look around Sara.

People were running toward the front desk. He frowned and got up, moving out the door curiously with Sara, looking back and forth, then to the lobby.

"Lindsey?" he said absently, moving toward the lobby.

He thought his eyes deceived him a moment, sliding his glasses onto his head. Lindsey sat at a bench at the front, swarmed with police officers. Nick was trying to direct them away from her.

He picked up his pace.

"Everyone take a step back!" Grissom's uncharacteristically raised voice commanded attention. "I know you all want to help, but any evidence that might be on her could be compromised with all of you too close to her." His voice instantly changed to all business, lowering considerably. "Sara, go get my kit, right now. Nick, call Brass. Warrick, I need to know who's touched her and what she touched, get them separated and process them away from here."

They nodded.

"She just walked in, went to the counter and asked for Catherine," Nick said, dialing his cell phone.

Grissom knelt next to her, suddenly calm as if he had merely flipped a switch. "Hi Lindsey."

She smiled at him, in a brand new outfit and shoes. "Hi Mr. Grissom."

"Are you all right?" he looked closely at her eyes, they were dilated.

She nodded, hugging a backpack. "I'm here for my mom to pick me up." Her eyes flicked softly to Nick as he talked on his cell phone.

"I'm going to take a look at you Lindsey, is that okay? Just to make sure you're all right."

She nodded.

"Yes, Brass… Lindsey is here at the station. Yah, she's fine. She just walked in the front door," Nick said quietly, eyeing her backpack. His cell phone flipped closed. "Pull all the surveillance tapes," he said to an officer.

"You're here for your mom to pick you up?" Grissom asked gently as Sara set his case down next to him. He slid on a pair of gloves.

Sara had her camera; she stepped out the door and starting taking pictures of the street and parking lot, hoping to catch something.

"Yah," she looked confused for a moment at all the attention. "My babysitter said my mom would be home now."

"Your babysitter?"

"Yah, the lady that mom sent to my ballet class to get me. I told her I was too old for a babysitter, but she said mom would be gone for a while on a case and she was going to take me shopping for my birthday." She kept blinking, her pupils dilated almost to the point of covering her irises.

"We're going to need a blood draw, right here," he whispered to Sara as she stepped back in and then turned back to Lindsey. "Did your babysitter hurt you?"

She frowned. "No!"

Sara moved down the hall.

"Where did you sleep last night Lindsey?"

She looked confused. "I don't… I don't remember."

"Lindsey, what's in the backpack?" Nick asked gently as Grissom scraped her fingernails and dropped the scrapings into a bindle.

Grissom ran his fingers over her hand; they were intensely cold.

"My new clothes, and a birthday present, but he said I couldn't open it until my mom picked me up."

Grissom's teeth clenched. "Can I have your backpack for a moment?"

She frowned. "I don't understand."

Her eyes were regaining clarity, tears started to brim at the corners as she realized how confused she was. She gave him the backpack.

He pursed his lips. "Nick?" he said as calmly as he closed his case gently, holding the backpack with tentative fingers. "This backpack is ticking."

The room was stunned for a moment, and then started to move with lightning speed.

"Everybody out NOW!" Nick's voice was fierce as he scooped up Lindsey, who had suddenly erupted in tears as she wrapped her legs around his waist and clutched him tightly. "I got her, Grissom, let's go."

The room scattered. Grissom set the backpack down carefully and picked up his case. Nick was already to the door.

"Grissom! Let's go!" He turned and moved out the door.

Nick looked for Grissom, his hand pressing Lindsey's face protectively to his chest as he yelled back into the building.

"GRISSOM! COME ON!" Nick hissed.

The backpack suddenly erupted in a shrill ringing.

Nick abruptly turned away from the door, holding in a breath and shielding Lindsey from the inevitable. He felt a silence, a calm, the yelling and shuffle of feet lost in a void of sound as the air seemed to be sucked from his lungs…

…and all hell broke loose.


	5. Over the Edge, Afraid of the Past

The world was dark, fuzzy… muffled.

Nick heard his heartbeat gradually come through the fog, staggered at first as it slowed to a gentle thump and finally relaxed from the fear of the moment. It evened out, becoming hypnotic as his lungs suddenly drew an enormous breath. His body was still vibrating, humming; eyes fluttering to see a spinning sidewalk, red and blue lights swirling with trails in his eyes, and the rest of the world a blurred Monet of colors and movement.

He was lying on the ground, feeling someone pushing against his grip as he blinked away the haze. Muted voices and hushed sirens penetrated his ears; slowly the hollow sobbing of a pre-teen girl reached his ringing eardrums. Nick's arms were still around Lindsey protectively, his hand gently cradling her head against his chest. Lindsey was squirming in his grasp. He was lying on his side in a puddle of glass and twisted metal. A warm stream of blood was dripping over his eyebrow.

Reality was coming back, pulling him from his vacuum. Fingers and toes moved one at a time as he took a mental account of his body.

"Lindsey!" Catherine's voice was desperate, her rushed footsteps clacked directly toward him.

Nick pushed himself up, the glass rushing off him in a cascade. Catherine was crying, her face a disturbing mix of anger, desperation and relief. Lindsey was pulled from his arms as Catherine seized her.

Grissom.

His chest tightened.

Grissom.

"Grissom!" Nick's instinct kicked in, looking frantically for him.

Grissom's hearing flickered like a shorted speaker. He absently reached up for glasses that were no longer there and then lowered his hand to rest on his chest quietly. He lay there for several moments, breathing quietly and regaining his bearings. Leaning up to a sitting position on the sidewalk, he looked into the smoking lobby.

He heard his name, sputtering in and out through his ears. Blinking a few times to clear his eyes, he looked to Nick.

Nick let out an explosive breath and lay back down, his head leaning back to the concrete with a crunch of glass as his hands traveled over his face. He flinched, fingers moving to his bleeding arm covered in road rash. The force of the blast had slid them several yards; the weight of Lindsey's body had ground his arm into the sidewalk.

Sirens screeched everywhere; an EMT's shadow suddenly loomed over him.

Sara knelt next to Grissom, "Are you okay?" rushed out.

He nodded.

She took Grissom's other arm to help him up as an EMT moved him toward a waiting ambulance.

"Don't ever do that again," she said to Grissom darkly, wiping the back of her hands over her eyes.

Warrick walked quickly with Greg to the ambulance, "What the hell happened?"

Sara frowned, watching Nick get moved to another ambulance on his own power.

"I'm going to help make sure everyone is accounted for," Greg said.

"Stay here," Sara demanded.

"Whatcha worried about Sidle? I've been blown up before," his humor was a welcome distraction as he walked off quickly to help Ecklie find everyone.

"Lindsey's backpack was apparently intended to give Catherine a birthday surprise," Grissom watched after Greg, then looked to Warrick.

"What?" Warrick said in disbelief, his face crumpling into a distinct frown. "Someone takes Lindsey, drugs her, wines her and dines her, then sends her home with new stuff for the sole purpose of killing Catherine?"

"And blowing up our lobby," Sara commented.

"I don't think blowing up our lobby was his main concern," Grissom finished, looking to an EMT as they took his blood pressure and flashed a light in his eyes.

Warrick watched Catherine argue with the EMT's about taking Lindsey home, his lips pressed together. He stalked quickly toward her. "This bomb was for you," he said sharply under his breath. "Catherine, if we got a prayer of getting this guy, she's got to be processed, the works."

Lindsey was sobbing, Catherine smoothing her hair. "Shhhh…" she wiped her own tears with the back of her hands. "I'm taking you home right now." Her eyes traveled over the new clothes with indignation and disbelief, completely ignoring Warrick for several minutes. "No!" Catherine finally hissed. "She's fine. She's going home with me right now." She started to pick up her things.

The EMT looked at her strangely.

Ecklie suddenly emerged from amongst the crowd, making a beeline toward Catherine. "Everyone is accounted for," he said to an officer, watching her help Lindsey off the back of the ambulance. "Catherine!" Ecklie snapped. "She stays here, she has to be processed."

"No, No!" she growled. "She's going home with me, it's obvious you can't protect her in your own lobby!"

"Catherine," Warrick put his hand on her arm, "I understand what you might be feeling right now, but you know what has to happen here."

"She's going home with me, right now!" she insisted.

"Catherine, you're being irrational," Ecklie put his hands on her shoulders to steer her back to the ambulance, his voice uncharacteristically warm and reasonable. "You know what has to be done here."

The argument turned heated, going back and forth between Catherine and Ecklie for several minutes until the sound of a strike reduced them to a shocked silence.

"Get the hell away from me and my daughter!" her voice was deadly, her fingers still stinging.

Ecklie was stunned, reaching to wipe a drop of blood from his nose as he pressed his lips together. "Get her out of here," he said darkly, his hand on his forehead, his other on his hip. "Get her out of here! Secure the girl and the scene."

"Mom!" Lindsey cried.

"It's okay, it's okay," Warrick hushed. "Ecklie, is this necessary?"

"We're losing valuable time processing a scene because she's creating one," his voice was impenetrable.

"C'mon, this is Catherine," Warrick pleaded.

"Which is exactly why we do this by the book, right Warrick?" his words were sarcastic. "No special treatment. Get cleared by the medics and get to work finding out who blew up my lab."

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

The distinct scent of smoke still hung in the air. The lobby had been roped off, fire marshal giving his clear to start the investigation. The blast had contained itself to the lobby, taking out glass to the doors, windows and surrounding rooms, overall centered on the backpack and scorching everything in a ten-foot radius. It was now being paced and processed by numerous personnel.

Catherine was sitting alone in an interrogation room, a uniform at the door.

Grissom and Nick stood looking through the glass silently at her; Nick's fingers were traveling absently over a freshly bandaged arm. She had calmed a bit, but her eyes were still insensible. She looked like she was going to start sobbing at any moment.

Greg poked his head in the door, looking at Grissom, "The rest of the lab is secure. Nothing's been compromised from any investigation. The blast was contained to the lobby. It was small, but hard, lots of projectiles. Specific purpose."

"To kill Catherine and Lindsey." Grissom said absently.

"Lindsey keeps asking for her, Ecklie said to come get her."

Grissom looked at Greg. "Well that was nice of him," he said, a slight sarcastic edge to his voice.

Greg nodded and went to close the door behind him.

"Greg?"

"Ya boss?" he asked quickly.

"Thank you for being so… efficient, while the rest of us seem to be having a meltdown."

Greg smiled slightly before he closed the door. "No problem."

"You wanna go tell her?" Nick asked.

"I think we both should," Grissom finished.

Catherine looked up as they both stepped in.

"I don't know what I was thinking," Catherine ran her hands over her face, looking up to Grissom. Her eyes were intensely bloodshot. "I'm a supervisor, I should have more self control than that."

"You're a mother first, and you were protecting your daughter," he said gently. "You've been through hell in the last twenty four hours."

She wiped her eyes again, looking over Nick's bandages, and the butterfly bandage covering a stitch on his eyebrow.

"Oh, Nicky…" her eyes were intensely hurt, fingers went to her temples as she rested her elbows on the table. "I was so focused on Lindsey, I didn't even stop to see if you were all right."

"Catherine, it's okay."

"Lindsey is asking for you," Grissom started. "Ecklie said you can go."

Her face brightened as she took her hands out of it. "Thank you," she said breathlessly as she rose to her feet. "Thank you both for saving my daughter's life, I'll make this up to you somehow." She moved quickly past them out the door.

The silence was looming for several moments.

Nick's lip began to tighten as his face darkened. He glared at Grissom for several long moments.

"Grissom, don't **_ever_** do that again," his Texas accent slipped out in the fiercely articulated words, desperation flicking through the last of them. Catherine's emotion had bled into his own.

Grissom looked blindsided.

"What were you doing man? You flirt with a bomb again and that'll be the last time." Nick's voice was angry, afraid at the same time, tears had started to brim on the edge of his eyes.

Grissom sighed slowly and blinked at him, his mouth opened to say something profound.

"I had it under control," he answered calmly.

Nick's hands went to his hips.

"You scared me to death!" Nick continued, his brow was furled painfully; there was fear in his voice. "I can't explain to you the feeling in that instant when I came to, and I didn't know what had happened to you."

"Nick, I was doing what I had to do to make sure it didn't injure anyone."

"But what about you? It was meant to kill Catherine? Is that true? Two of us could have been gone in one strike!"

………………………………_**.."look at you… a little boy with a gun…"**_

Grissom gave him a long look. "Nick, what's this really about?" He studied Nick's face, shreds of something he could wrap his brain around was flickering through Nick's eyes.

………………………………_**.."one by one….a car accident here, a mugging there…"**_

Nick's hand went to his hair, rifling it back and forth as he paced slightly. "You're not invincible," he finished, opening the door and slamming it behind him.

Grissom stared at the door with a deeply concerned and bewildered look.

"Pray tell Nick," he said to the empty room. "Why you think I would need to be?"


	6. Penguins and Coincidences

His chest hurt, the throb traveling up his neck to start a headache. Muscles were sore, aching in places he hadn't remembered being injured. The late afternoon heat was fierce, the sidewalk blanched as he pushed the double doors open to the freshly waxed lobby. His stride was determined, driven by a fierce gut feeling; a hunch. He had to follow it, for Catherine's sake, he owed it to them.

The brilliantly illuminated lobby at the symphony hall was exquisitely decorated with gold gilt, chandeliers and murals that had been unobtrusive when he was here in the dark several days prior. Numerous ushers were already placing red velvet ropes and polishing banisters. He abruptly felt out of place in his jeans and button up shirt as he stepped up to the box office.

"I was wondering," he spoke so softly the receptionist didn't notice him for a moment; his ribs ached. He cleared his throat with a wince and spoke a little louder. "The group that practices here at night, when's their next performance?"

His hand rested on the counter expectantly.

The receptionist looked up, her eyes focusing on the white butterfly bandage on his eyebrow before looking him in the eyes. "Tonight," she started. "Sorry hun, we're sold out."

He nodded slowly, "No problem, thanks anyway."

"Wait a moment," she paused, typing something into the computer.

His fingers tapped on the counter.

"One of our violinists returned two tickets. We don't allow waiting lists, only first come first serve. Great seats, CC left center."

"I'll take them," he pulled out his wallet, paying with plastic.

As she ran his card, he looked absently at a band-aid carefully tucked in the money pocket. It was folded and worn, removed from his ID holder some time ago. His thumb ran across it tenderly. He couldn't get the thought out of his head that Catherine's attempted murder had not been a coincidence.

There was a message here. Pressing his lips together, he looked around the lobby. He couldn't fathom the forces moving beyond his sight. It felt like a pipe about to burst that nobody could see; the tremors on a needled paper before an earthquake. There was a message, something that had been painstakingly put under his nose and he was missing it.

"Here you are."

Her voice snapped him from his thoughts.

The receptionist handed his card back, and then the tickets. "You got lucky, this concert's been sold out for weeks."

"Thanks," he smiled as he tucked them into his back pocket and dialed Grissom's number, walking toward the front doors. "Yah Grissom… hi. Look um, I'm sorry about yesterday." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I know I'm supposed to be home, but I need to talk with you; I was hoping we could do it tonight. You need to see something."

"The reason for a day off is to take a day off Nick," Grissom chided over the phone. "And you don't need to apologize, you were saying what you felt and it has been taken under advisement."

"How's Catherine?"

"Fine, she's off for the week."

"The lab?"

"Surviving, the lobby will be down for a while, but everything is getting put back together. The department store and cemetery case have been combined and are Sara and Greg's responsibility. Warrick is working the lobby. We called Sophia back from vacation early to help with the overload and dayshift is working overtime on it. Don't worry about anything, get better."

"And you?"

"A similar case of road rash, but otherwise fine," he paused. "Where is this conversation going Nick?"

Nick was silent for a moment, watching a group of musicians come in the front door dressed for the concert, their conversations echoing off the stone floors.

"Where are you?" Grissom asked.

He pursed his lips. "The symphony hall," he said tentatively.

"I never pegged you as the Mozart type."

"I just bought tickets for tonight's performance," Nick finished, afraid to say it any louder. "That's what I need to talk to you about. There's something you need to see."

"You got tickets for tonight's performance? It's been sold out for weeks."

"I got lucky."

"Nick, I'd be honored. I'll indulge your mystery."

"Um… what do I wear?" he asked.

Nick could hear the grin on Grissom's face over the phone.

"For a performance this high profile, you wear a tux Nick."

"A tux. Okay."

"I'll pick **_you_** up at seven," Grissom said.

"Okay."

"And Nick?"

"What?"

"Go home and rest until then."

"Sure thing, bye," he let out a slow breath.

"Nick Stokes?"

He flipped his cell closed, looking behind him. It was the same woman as before, stepping out of a group of people going into the hall. A form skimming black velvet dress floated above the floor, her short hair fashionably tousled in a fun way. Diamond studs gleamed from her ears, a simple necklace at her throat.

"Hi," he unconsciously smoothed his hair, hands sliding to his pockets. He fought the urge to reach up and tousle her hair a bit more.

"Never thought I'd see you again, I almost didn't recognize you without the bullet proof vest and gun," she ribbed slightly, eyeing his bandaged arm.

Her voice sent a chill down his spine. The resemblance was uncanny. He fought the urge to outright ask her. His eyes closed a moment, fierce determination across his brow.

…he was chasing a ghost. He was chasing a ghost to protect his friends.

"That was you wasn't it?"

He looked at her curiously, purpose down his straight nose.

"On the news. You were the one who saved that girl?" she smiled uneasily at his terse look.

Cheeks flushed, melting slightly at the pretty smile. His face softened. "Yah, my colleague and I."

This couldn't be the same person. He'd seen the brutality, the killing machine underneath; most importantly, the actress. This was a fluke. It had to be, this couldn't be real.

"Did you just buy tickets?"

He jumped slightly at her voice; it brought his breath faster in his chest. "Just like everybody else." Eyes crinkled in a smile, unconsciously looking at her hand resting on the strap of her case.

She shook her head, walking to the box office.

His eyes wandered across her neck and top of her shoulders visible from the modestly cut dress. There was nothing there; her skin was muscled, smooth, an extremely faint tan line from a bathing suit. What was he expecting to see? Scars? Tattoos? Something?

"Cindy, can you credit those tickets back to him, leave the charge on my account okay?"

Cindy nodded, rolling the mouse on the computer.

He approached her, eyes still on her shoulders. "Hey, you don't have to do that."

"Yes I do, people in your line of work don't get enough thanks for what you do." she took her hand from the strap, following his line of sight. "Is there something wrong with my hand?" She looked at her smooth palm, then the back of it, concerned.

"Um… no," he squinted at her through his stitched eyebrow; he couldn't get close enough to see what he was looking for. "Hey, I need to go home and get changed, maybe I'll see you after the concert."

There was an awkward silence as she suppressed a shy smile.

"I hope so, Mr. Stokes."

"Neysa, let's go or maestro will have our…" her friend peered her head from the stage door.

"I gotta go," she finished, pausing as she smiled awkwardly and moved toward the stage door. "I'll see you tonight, Mr. Stokes," she said before she slipped through the door.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

The front doorbell sprang to life. Nick crossed the hall and opened the front door. Grissom was dapper in his tux, a smile on his face.

"I still can't believe you were able to get tickets," he stepped in, closing the door behind him. "Beethoven's Ninth, Carmina Burana, this is a big concert in combination with the vocal society."

Nick went back to fussing with the bow tie at the hall mirror.

"I have no idea what you just said, it sounds like Greek to me," he started, folding the wings of his shirt down over the bowtie and getting frustrated. "Tickets are on the counter."

Grissom picked up the folded tickets, smoothing them out. "I've been meaning to ask," he turned to him. "I've been able to satiate my curiosity with the fact you may have suddenly developed a taste for orchestral literature, but I know that's probably not the case. What brought on this sudden interest in Beethoven and Orff?"

"I caught the rehearsal while on my way to the department store case," he smoothed his coat, looking in the mirror, frowning at the butterfly still on his eyebrow. He considered taking it off, but she'd liked it. He grinned slightly, smoothing the hair over his ears.

"This wouldn't have to do with a girl would it?" Grissom's brow rose as he put the tickets in his inner breast pocket.

"A girl just happened to be there," he touched the butterfly bandage over his eye. "It was a coincidence."

"There are girls in a lot of places. I don't believe in coincidences."

"I know, which is why I wanted you to come with me. I don't believe that meeting this girl and Catherine being targeted at the same time is random. It's too much… it's just too weird," he pulled the front of his coat flat with a snap.

"Are you chasing a ghost?" Grissom's voice was sincere, and incredibly quiet.

Nick flipped his collar up again and fixed his bow tie. "I don't know."

Grissom looked at his watch, then back to Nick. "You can tell me on the way."

"Tell you what?"

"What happened on that mountain a year ago," Grissom was fiercely serious.

Nick's blood froze, eyes resting heavily on Grissom. Shutting the lights off, his gaze resting for a long moment on the cabinet where his gun was stored. He felt naked without it, needing the comfort of the weight around his shoulders.

Grissom caught the look, walking out to his SUV to give him the private time to make the decision. He decided against it, following him out the door.

Nick sat silently in the passenger seat, watching the lights whiz by.

"I'm not going to force you to talk Nick," Grissom paused. "I'm in a tux and about to attend a formal event with the last person I'd ever expect to have invited me. You wouldn't be attending this unless it was incredibly important."

Nick pursed his lips, struggling.

The truck slowed for a red light. "The feds aren't here, Nick," Grissom urged, looking up as the light turned green. "This is just a conversation between you and I."

The silence was heavy, deep as Nick drew in a slow breath. "Before you found us, on that mountain, a man, the man, who shot her…"

Grissom was patient, the dark twinge twisting at his sternum. "The man who shot Kara."

"Yah," Nick began, finding his breath. "I think I was his target."

"Perhaps," Grissom thought out loud. "That's hard to tell Nick. It happened really fast. Hind sight **_isn't_** always 20/20."

"You weren't there," a bitterness lingered in his voice.

"No, I wasn't," Grissom let it rest a moment.

Nick closed his eyes; Ricker's voice was so etched into his brain it hurt to think of him

"He promised to kill us," Nick finally said.

Grissom's brow furled.

"He said he would kill us, and it would look like an accident. I told this all to the feds. They said they would take care of it."

Grissom's silence was long. "What happened yesterday was hardly an accident," he surmised. He parked his SUV, turning off the engine. The heaviness to the silence was unbearable as he rested both hands on the steering wheel. "And why are we at the symphony?"

"To make sure my hunch is wrong," Nick said.

Grissom's lips pressed together, willing to go this route to make him feel better.

They got out of the truck, smoothing their ware and moving into the hall. Diamonds and champagne were everywhere, the high and mighty of the city all in one place at the same time. Grissom didn't seem interested in the social scene, even though many recognized him. He made a beeline for the hall. They took their seats and waited for the performance to start. Grissom studied the program, searching the orchestra as they warmed up.

"Second row on the left, third one in," Nick leaned over to tell him.

Nick watched his face, the sudden recognition in his eyes as he saw her for the first time.

"A doppelganger," Grissom looked intrigued, his sideways glance at Nick revealing his brain churning over something yet to be determined. He began to rifle through the program, looking for something he wasn't divulging.

The orchestra suddenly silenced and the conductor came out to a thunderous applause.

"Her name is Neysa," Nick continued.

Grissom blinked slowly. Worry spread across his features as he rifled through the program again.

He found the spelling of her name.

"There are no coincidences," he said, looking up sharply from the program. "**_O Fortuna_**," Grissom shot him a dark expression that twinged with panic, and then looked back to the orchestra as he stared at the black-haired violinist that had caught Nick's attention. "**_Well-being is in vain, now through the game I bring my bare back to your villainy, fate is against me…. so at this hour, I pluck the vibrating strings, since fate yearns and strikes down the strong man…_**" he finished, getting up suddenly to make his way through the row to the lobby before the concert started.

"Where are you going?" Nick whispered fiercely.

"To call Brass," he whispered quietly. "We need to get to Catherine, right now."


	7. Glitches

"They're looking for me!" she continued her pacing, her fingers running up and down her arms as she puffed heavily on a cigarette. "Did you see that, it's all over the news!"

"Stop freaking out! We can fix this."

The room was a hazy potpourri of addictive smoke, a ceiling fan circling limply over the space. The thick hot air didn't seem to move, spindles of light leaking through the drawn curtains as the TV continued its flickering. Her gaze glanced nervously back and forth from the chained door to the TV.

"That's easy for you to say, you're not gonna get fried for stealing some policeman's brat!" black eyeliner streaked a pale face, she wiped her nose on the back of her hand. Hands trembled, her high from something indiscernible fading quickly as her adrenaline burned through it. "You stupid jerk, you told me it was a good idea!"

"Hey, it was a good idea! We got paid a lot of money and it solved a lot of our problems. Don't worry, it's been taken care of!"

"For you! Look at that!" she gestured wildly toward the TV at a police sketch that bore a vivid resemblance to her. "You said it would be a good idea, you said it would be all right! Blowing up the cops! Whose friggin' idea was that! I'm gonna get thrown in jail!" Her fingers were at her temples. "I need to think. I need to get out of here."

"Calm down!" Bobby's hands rested on her shoulders, the cigarette bouncing on his lips as his lean frame towered over her. "You helped us out, the least we can do is protect you," his voice lowered. "We're gonna protect you. We have to stick with the plan."

"I've helped you out twice in this mess, don't forget that," she wiped her eyes with the fishnet armbands that were hooked over her thumbs. "And that time I ran dope for you downtown is three."

"We won't forget it," he turned her around, patting her on the cheek, sliding a small plastic bag of contraband into her pocket.

She was calm for a moment, wiping the smeared kohl make-up from her eyes and smoothing her dark hair back into its ponytail. She peered out the blinds, the incessant tinkering of their neighbor on his beat up car in the parking lot irritating her. Her face twisted lightly, the words he had spoken finally hitting a nerve.

"We?" she started. "We! Who you working for now?" her voice was suddenly uneven, panicked and worn from a hangover. "I'm sick and tired of you making deals with people without telling me." She started punching his arm. "We're gonna get screwed over!"

He shook his head, trying to calm her down. "This is someone who can and has solved a lot of our problems. Look, that brat he paid us to take, was just a test you see? To see if we can be trusted, and he's repayed us for that. We've made rent, made good on a few debts, we're good."

"You're not getting blamed for blowing up the cops! Your face isn't all over the news!"

"No… Regina's face is all over the news, **_Becka_**. I thought this one through."

She blinked at him. "You're an asshole!" escaped her lips. "I can't believe you'd sell me out to someone you barely know for money!" She instantly made a beeline for the bedroom, throwing her cigarette into the toilet and pulling a black canvas bag from beneath her unmade bed. Stuffing clothes into it quickly, she rushed to the bathroom and rifled through the bleach and dye littering the counter. She dumped all her toiletries and loose makeup into the bag. "We're screwed…"

"We're fine!" he cut her off.

"My parents are involved now cause the cops are gonna put two and two together you idiot!" she said brusquely, moving toward the front door. "That wasn't what we agreed. You're changing the rules, I want out."

"Where're you gonna go?" his voice boomed. He put out his cig between his thumb and forefinger and slipped it behind his ear, kicking the college books she'd forgotten from the coffee table.

"Out of here," she hissed. "I ain't stupid. I'm the patsy here! You can go off with your new friend and knock yourselves out."

"C'mon Regina!"

"I trusted you to help me out, and I get repayed how? By being framed?" her eyes were fierce, but afraid as she set to work on the chains and locks on the door.

"That was always the plan and you know it, things just got a little complicated. Just let me explain…"

"You've explained enough," she slung the bag over her shoulder and pushed her way out the door, running smack into someone's chest.

Kohl eyes glared at him with annoyance for blocking her flight. The man lowered his arm; fist had been poised to knock on the door.

She glared up at him, a chill spilling down the back of her neck. Had he been listening to the argument through the locked door? He was middle aged, hair shorn close to his head. The air of calm around him was cold, calm; narrowed eyes watching her serenely.

Bobby at glared him from the doorway. "Um, hi Kale. I got this under control."

"I can see that," he drawled, taking a long drag from his cigarette, looking her over.

"Is this him?" she glared at Bobby. "Is this the new jerk you sold me out for!"

Bobby looked to him, seeming to ask for unspoken permission. "This is Kale."

"You guys deserve each other," she snapped, pushing past him. "Asshole. Screw you both, I'm going to the cops…"

Her words were cut short by her own panicked, bloodcurdling scream. Bag crashed to the ground as Kale grabbed her by the hair, pressing her face into the front door.

"No cops," he snarled, pushing her back into the apartment by her throat, pulling her bag in and slamming the door behind them.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Nick paused at Grissom's office, knocking gently on the doorframe. Grissom sat down at his desk, a formidable stack of folders in front of him. His nostrils flared slightly, the smell of ash still lingering in the air.

"You wanted to see me?" Nick asked quietly. The events of the previous night were still fresh. He was frustrated that it was uneventful; but was relieved for Catherine and Lindsey that it had been so. Eyes wandered over the printout of a police sketch in his hand.

"How's the bomb?" he looked at the paper Nick was holding.

"It's coming," he said shortly.

"Is that our kidnapper?"

"Yes."

"I thought you were working on putting the bomb back together?"

"I am, I needed a break. I saw the police sketch on the news when I went for coffee. I wanted a hard copy," his lips pursed as his jaw began to square. "You want to bust my chops because I went for coffee?"

"Of course not Nick," Grissom closed a folder as he looked up. "Are you disappointed?"

He looked confused a moment. "About last night?" his voice was extremely soft. He shook his head. "I'm just disappointed that I ruined Catherine's night. I know she was happy we were looking out for her, but…"

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about." He leaned back in his chair. "I wanted to make it clear that I ruined Catherine's night. I read into something that wasn't there," Grissom redirected. "It wasn't your fault."

"But I put you in that position," Nick finished, his fingers tightening on the piece of paper in his fingers.

"Nick, you should never feel ashamed about making sure someone is okay," he slid his glasses onto his nose. He looked down at his folder. "Close the door please."

Nick swallowed visibly, and reached behind him to push the door shut with his fingers, holding his position near the door.

Grissom pursed his lips, "You didn't answer my question. Did finding nothing disappoint you?"

Nick's face looked annoyed, a tight set to his jaw. Hands went instinctively to his hips, the printout crinkling slightly in his fingers. He didn't want to discuss this. "You've said yourself that there are no coincidences," he said defensively, voice trailing off toward the end.

"And I stand by that, but… Sometimes things are just as simple as they are at face value. Sometimes, things just are what they seem to be Nick." He watched him for a moment, his voice changing gently. "I think we both need to accept that fact that we may be reading into something that isn't there to see."

Nick seethed a sigh through his nose, looking as if he wanted to be anywhere else but there. "I don't believe that."

Grissom chose his next words very carefully. "No matter how much I want to read into Neysa, I don't think it's going to go anywhere," he paused a long time, waiting until he saw the frown relax on Nick's brow. "She's dead Nick. Kara is dead."

The silence was painful.

Nick took a slow breath, licking his lips and setting them again. Looking errantly at the police sketch, his eyes rested back on Grissom.

"Are we finished?" he asked shortly, his voice was hoarse. "I have to work on getting that bomb back together."

"Are we okay" Grissom asked quietly, his fingers steeped together.

"Yes."

He watched the intense square to Nick's jaw, muscles flicking in his neck. He felt for him, could feel the frustration and anger seething from him, and he could do nothing to change it.

"Nick, I can't tell you what you want to hear," Grissom said finally.

Nick's look was becoming unreadable, his lids lowering slightly to give his face a resentful expression. He was closing himself off completely.

Grissom sighed. He felt as if he was now a principal, lecturing a student for doing something wrong that they vehemently denied they were a part of. He was certain Nick was no longer in a listening mood. There was nowhere else to go with the conversation.

"We're finished," Grissom nodded as gently as he could, taking a sip of coffee from his mug and watching Nick leave with concern.

Nick moved back to the lab with stiff and determined strides. Greg was speaking to him, but it wasn't registering in his brain. Nick squinted at the printout of the police sketch, then folded it and shoved it into his back pocket as he put on a new pair of gloves.

"Just… shut up," Nick said suddenly, looking back to the dozens of pieces scattered across the table.

Greg blinked at him, chewing on the side of his lip and raising his brows. "Okee…" he said under his breath and went back to his microscope.

Something suddenly clicked in his head. Nick glared at Greg's hair.

"You're on the department store case right?"

Greg was quiet for a moment, "So now you don't want me to shut up?"

Nick frowned at him, getting up unexpectedly and pulling off his gloves. Heading toward the morgue, he paged Sara and Warrick en route, Greg hot on his heels

"Dr. Robbins, Regina Dalton, the department store case Warrick's trying to close? Is the body still here?" Nick asked as he pushed opened the doors.

Robbins looked up through a visor and turned off some kind of saw, tilting up his face shield. "Yah, she's all set, the funeral home is picking her up today. Anything you didn't get is gone by now."

"More than you know," Nick said to himself, moving toward the cooler and pulling the picture out of his back pocket.

"What's this about?" Warrick asked as he followed him in, Sara at his side. He made an annoyed face when he saw Robbins pull out the drawer and lower the sheet. "I've got work up to my eyeballs cause people like making things go boom. Nick we don't have time to second-guess the evidence on this one, this case belongs to Sara and Greg. You got a bomb to put back together."

Nick lowered the picture next to the girl's face.

Warrick blinked. "Well I'll be damned. Good eyes Nick. How'd we miss this?"

"The hair color's different, Lindsey's picture's got light hair," Sara observed.

"Hair dye," Greg started. "She could have kidnapped Lindsey, then dyed her hair to cover her tracks."

"Maybe Lindsey didn't remember the hair color correctly. She was drugged shortly after she was picked up," Sara said.

"But the timeline doesn't fit. It's impossible, this girl was dead an hour before Lindsey went missing," Warrick frowned, shaking his head at the twist of evidence. "Lindsey would never have seen this girl's face in order to ID her."

"Something else interesting you might want to know." Robbin's eyebrow slid up. "Parents came in to ID her. Weird thing is; after they got the call, it took them almost three hours to get here. They live a couple miles away. Mom was a wreck… dad was, almost relieved. I see a lot of grief around here, and his reaction was kind of odd. The fact a couple of parents didn't rush in to see their murdered daughter was enough to make it stick in my brain."

"Sister maybe?" Greg asked.

"I'm on it," Sara said, moving back toward the lab.

Nick look at him questioningly. "We need to talk with Regina's parents. And we need to find out why a teenage girl would kidnap a CSI's daughter, then use her to kill Catherine."


	8. Going Cold

"Hey Sara, I'll meet you at the lab in a half hour, I have to stop somewhere first."

He smiled slightly at the tart comment from the other end, Brass' quirky humor hung in the background. The cell phone clicked closed as he pushed open the doors, moving into the shiny waxed lobby. There were a few errant voices and string plucks coming from the stage within the main hall, but otherwise, the place was deserted save for a few custodians and staff.

He took off his sunglasses and stepped inside the concert hall. The ambiance was instantly different; the stark echo of the stone tiled lobby giving way to the comfortable vibrancy of velvet curtains and soft lights that faded into an endless ceiling.

The stage was devoid its usual group of people, several dozen empty scattered chairs and music stands making it seem lonely. Neysa was leaning over someone's shoulder, pointing at the music on a stand in front of a young girl. Her fingers gently touched the scroll of the violin, lifting it into a better position as the girl followed her lead. Neysa was tutoring as she cleaned up the stage, dressed comfortably; a black tee shirt over jeans that were folded up to her calves, and what looked like ballet slippers on her feet. Her face smiled gently, stacking the rest of the chairs and music stands while listening to the young girl run through her music.

Nick walked down the aisle, stopping near the steps to the apron. He watched her for a long time, the gracefulness of her movements reminding him of almost a catlike precision. The weight of her eyes abruptly fell on him as she finished the chair stack she was working on.

"Good job Kierstin," she praised. Her voice spoke to the girl, but her eyes were on him as she leaned over, picking up a pencil from the stand and writing in the music. "We're done for today hun," she finished.

The girl smiled at her.

"Finish up your work on extensions and I'll see you on Tuesday."

"Thanks Ms. Baylee."

Neysa patted her on the shoulder. The girl got up and packed her case, hopping down the steps and out to the lobby.

Nick watched the young girl rush past him warmly and waited in silence, the distinct feeling he would get an earful.

"I came to apologize," he said simply, hooking his sunglasses on his vest.

She continued to stack chairs, letting him sweat a bit. "You know, I've been stood up a lot and I've heard apologies before." The chairs clinked together. She was pissed, muscles on her arms flexing sharply as she moved. "But I have never," she stopped, glaring at him with her hands on her hips. "…been stood up after **_I_** paid for the date." Her face was set for a long moment.

She turned and continued stacking chairs.

"I find it hard to believe you get stood up that often."

Stopping, she sighed as she pressed her hand to her forehead, pushing back several locks of hair. Her expression was frustrated. "You know my friends warned me about your type."

"My type?" he looked genuinely surprised.

"Yah, the type that dresses up nice then leads you on." She wiped her forehead on the back of her arm. "You came here to apologize, get on with it so I can finish my work," she was out of breath, her hands back to her hips. "It's not every day I have a sexy man coming here to see just me because he feels guilty."

He suppressed a smile. She was right for milking this for all it was worth.

"I am sincerely sorry for rushing out of here… but, there were circumstances out of my control," his voice softened. "I'm really disappointed I didn't get to see you perform. Can I make it up to you? Dinner?"

She crossed her arms, pursing her lips as she sucked on a tooth slightly.

"I'm cooking," he offered more.

She raised an eyebrow, she was still skeptical. "You see, they said that too." Her eyes traveled over him from head to toe, a sly smile on her lips. " I tend to believe you're nothing but a football watching chips and dip kinda guy who paints his chest and passes out on the front lawn. Which, as you can see, doesn't really interest me," she pulled the stand rack to the side of the stage. "But if you want, I could help you with the chest painting part."

He half smiled. "Okay then. How about something simpler… coffee?"

Neysa's face softened a bit, pursing her lips as she looked directly at him, then to his eyebrow, then back to him.

The stare sparked something in his chest. He couldn't shrug off the intensity of her eyes. Every warning bell told him to walk away and leave it alone, but he couldn't. Was he trying to prove Grissom wrong, or was he trying to prove himself wrong?

"Your bandage is coming off," she finally said, the soft English accent catchy.

He blinked, reaching up to press the white butterfly back on.

She smiled slightly, sitting on the edge of the stage to hop down. "So what guarantee do I have that you won't stand me up again… or at least take off within the first few minutes?"

"My word?" he pressed his finger to his eyebrow again.

"There's something I've never been promised before." She shooed his hand away and leaned in, squinting slightly as she reached up and pressed it back to his brow.

Surprised at the sudden attention, he welcomed it. Her nose was inches from his as her dark eyes focused on his eyebrow, squinting with intense concentration. She seemed to be deciding whether to press it back down or pull it off when he wasn't expecting it. His nostrils breathed in her scent, reminiscent of roses darkened sensually by the sweat that was beading at her collarbone even through the air conditioning.

"That was an amazing thing you did for that girl," she smiled, looking him in the eye.

A swirl of pride brightened his face.

"That's why I'm even talking to you right now after you stood me up," the smirk was sly. "This is an ambulance stitch," she said quickly, examining it again.

He pursed his lips in question.

"Good, but done in a hurry. My mother was a nurse," she answered his unspoken question. "…and my grandmother sewed American boys back together after London was bombed in World War II." She started to peel the butterfly off gently. "I usually don't poke at strangers to inflict pain for getting stood up, but you seem like such a southern gentleman."

His eyes narrowed slightly. He'd heard that before.

"It's not going to stay down," she concluded. "Guess I'll have to patch you up before getting back to my chairs."

He smiled, "Don't they have people that deal with those chairs?"

"Yah, me," she said with a sarcastic lick in her voice as her lips curled up at the corners like a Cheshire cat. "The new members get the job of schlepping the furniture," she continued.

He winced slightly.

"Hold still," she said, her face frowning. "I'm trying not to hurt you," she whispered. "Even though I should."

Dark, hooded eyes focused on her tan skin, her elbow moving right in front of his vision. What was he expecting to see? Her soft fingertips pressed on his forehead once more, stretching the skin taught.

"There," she said, taking his hand and placing it into his palm, closing his fingers around it. "Your butterfly band-aid."

His lips flicked into a soft lopsided smile, watching her glittering eyes with passionate curiosity. She was wearing contacts, the faint line of the lenses visible from the short distance. He found himself intensely studying her irises, the subtle striations in the dark color toward her pupils seeming unnatural.

Her silence was heavy, the heat of her arms radiating against his.

"I really like you, Nick Stokes. I'm glad you came back."

As if on cue, she blinked and took a step back toward the stage. "Tomorrow morning then?" She pulled herself easily back onto the apron, avoiding the stairs again, sitting on the edge and crossing her legs gracefully.

He nodded. His brain wanted him to say more, but he decided against it.

"I'll pick you up," he said.

"How about I meet you somewhere?" she stood up on the stage, dusting off the back of her pants. "Then if you turn out to be a psycho, I can drive myself home."

He smiled slightly. He liked her quirky sense of humor. "There's a place just around the corner."

She nodded.

"8 okay?"

"I have another date tomorrow with the equipment room," she nodded again. "A coffee date would be a nice change. Please don't disappoint me again," she said as she pushed a stand rack into the back of the stage and out of sight.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Houses were small, very neatly manicured and well kept. Every house was exactly the same, a few variances in color and landscape, but identical in build like they'd been stamped with a cookie cutter. People were peering from their kitchen windows at their presence, and had been so since they had first pulled into the driveway.

Sara was afraid to sneeze, she looked at Nick's ID vest and opaque sunglasses.

"Welcome to suburbia," she drew a breath, a quirky smile on her face as she raised her hand to knock on the door. "I couldn't live here, and… I think they're staring at you Nick."

He smirked slightly, his eyebrows flicking upward once.

"You're glowing."

"Glowing?" he questioned.

"You've been to the symphony again haven't you?" Brass commented under his breath. "Must be some performance."

Nick gave him a sarcastic look.

Sara pressed her lips out of a smile, turning back to the entry. It was an ornate entrance, protected soundly by a white metal outer door under the guise of a decorated screen door. A peek hole was at eye level, as well as two dead bolts. Looking at them for a moment before she knocked, she took it all in.

"No other houses are protected like this," she said softly, errantly looking up and down the block. "These people are afraid of something."

"Or someone," Nick finished, looking down the street with her. "Someone shoots your daughter, you might get a little protective."

"Or maybe they're afraid of getting blown up by a backpack," Brass commented. "I've never understood these. Bars on the doors and windows," Brass tapped on the metal. "The people inside would rather burn to death in their own homes because they can't get out rather than let in and deal with whatever they're afraid of."

Sara chewed on her lip, knocking finally. "There's a morbid thought."

Both deadbolts clicked and the door opened slightly.

"Hi, my name is Sara Sidle and I'm from the Las Vegas Crime Lab, this is Nick Stokes and Detective Jim Brass, are you Mrs. Dalton?"

The woman nodded, reaching for the door chain and closing the door with a slam.

Nick looked at them both, hands moving to his hips as he turned and looked up and down the street again behind shadowed sunglasses. The door clicked as the chain released and opened again.

The woman inside was frail looking and small, a shock of gray hair streaking through her dark hair. She was younger than she looked, her eyes reddened by crying.

"We were wondering if we could ask you a few questions about your daughter."

"Of course," she said quietly. "My husband is at the funeral home… they called him back for something. I couldn't bear to go again…" she was silent for a long time. "I'm afraid it's just me."

She opened the door a bit wider and they stepped in. She rechained the door behind them.

"Please," she gestured toward the couches in the plain living room.

Sara and Brass sat, Nick remained standing, sliding off his glasses and noting the pictures that were lining the shelves.

"We know your time right now is valuable so we'll try to be brief. We think that your daughter, Regina may have been involved in a kidnapping at the local precinct before she was killed. The girl, contributed to a police sketch that bore a striking resemblance to your daughter Regina," Brass started.

Mrs. Dalton started to draw a breath. "It doesn't surprise me," she said, eyes forlorn. "I knew she would end up in trouble and in a morgue somewhere, I'm just thankful that we didn't find her in a ditch, or not at all."

Brass looked at Sara.

Nick picked up a picture from the shelf. Two girls were in the picture with Mrs. Dalton. They looked the same age, one pristine and in a cheerleader's uniform, the other dressed nicely, but in the background. They were identical.

"That kidnapping also led to the bombing at the precinct," Sara said gently.

"Oh god…" Mrs. Dalton started to cry gently, picking a small mashed package of Kleenex out of her pocket. "I knew she was involved in that, I just knew…" She pulled out several crinkled Kleenex and wiped her eyes.

"Mrs. Dalton, did Regina have a sister?" Nick asked.

She looked up at Nick.

"Yes, she's Rebecca's twin sister… they're identical."

Nick pursed his lips, looking darkly to Brass. Regina was **_Rebecca's_** twin sister?

"Does Rebecca have blonde hair?" he asked, a frown settling down his straight nose.

She shook her head. "Rebecca has always had brown hair. Regina, last time I saw her, she was blonde… but at the… the morgue she was dark haired… we could never keep track. She just… did whatever she wanted."

He looked to Sara, who returned his expression.

"We will need to ask Rebecca a few questions, Mrs. Dalton. Where can we find Rebecca?" Brass asked as he pulled out a small notepad and poised his pen.

"She's at college, this is exam week. God… she doesn't know yet." the tears came again. "My husband thought it would be too stressful."

"Mrs. Dalton, we're very sorry for your loss, but anything you can tell us will help find your daughter's killer," Nick pressed.

"You think Rebecca had something to do with this?" she looked incredulous.

"Ma'am we're not sure. We need to speak with Rebecca," Brass continued.

"Of course." She got up and moved into the kitchen, bringing back a brightly colored sticky note with an address and room number on it. "Rebecca would never do anything like this." She sat back down. "When we got the call… we knew it was Regina."

She was quiet for a long time.

"When you're a parent, in the pit of your stomach," she looked desperate. "You know something's wrong… we knew she was out of our reach… and there was nothing we could do to stop her."

Brass nodded. He understood.

Nick raised a brow, setting the picture back down.

Sara stood up slowly. "Could we also get some names of Regina's friends, maybe where she was staying?"

"That, I don't even know, when she left home… she made it very clear she wanted nothing to do with any of us," she thought a moment. "Bobby. Bobby… Cross? I think that was her boyfriend in high school, or her dealer. One of them. We had no idea where she lived."

Nick's eyes panned across the rest of the pictures. Regina Dalton was one unhappy girl. In all the photos, Rebecca seemed the shining picture of perfection, and Regina; with her black striped bleached blond hair and kohled eyes looked absolutely miserable. The older the girls were in the photos, the more Regina seemed to fade into the background until in the most recent ones, she was absent from them completely.

"This may be a strange question," Nick's question was out of the blue. "But did Regina do any ghost hunting?"

"No… that was Rebecca's thing. Regina used to do it. It was something they enjoyed doing together, until Regina got into other things. Why?"

"Regina's body was found with vegetation in her hair, consistent with brambles at the sight of a murder of three other boys," Nick said.

Mrs. Dalton's face pursed. "Chris? Eduardo? That old cemetery… Rebecca has been talking about it for months, she was bummed that she couldn't go out there with them because of her exams. Did something happen to those boys?"

"I'm afraid so ma'am."

Her face was tortured. "This is a nightmare…"

"Do you know why Regina might have been out there with them?" Sara asked gently.

"I'm not sure. Possibly, I think she used to date… Chris?"

Sara continued, "One last question, did Regina drive a Honda Civic?"

"No," she blew her nose. "That's Rebecca's car. She has it with her at college."

"Thank you Mrs. Dalton, we know this is a very difficult time," Brass stood. "If there's anything we can do, please call."

She nodded, dabbing at her eyes as she stood and unchained the door.

They stepped out, moving back to the SUV. The door closed behind them, the dead bolts clicking again.

"Sad…" Nick commented, sliding on his glasses.

Brass nodded. "What kind of parent doesn't call and tell her sister that her twin's been killed?"

Sara frowned. "Someone who doesn't believe her death was important." She started the engine.

"Those pictures told the whole story. Rebecca was the favorite. Regina was the outcast. There's no excuse to do that to your kids," Nick said particularly to himself.

Brass' voice was thoughtful; "Sometimes the kids do it to themselves."

"She's definitely afraid of someone. I think that someone was Regina," Sara observed.

"So now that Regina's dead, why is she still chaining the door?" Brass asked.

They chewed on the idea for a long time.

Sara seemed glum as she drove. "As far as the boys and Regina are concerned, there's enough to maybe lead us in the right direction for the murders. But as far as Lindsey's concerned… I'm afraid to say this, but… we got nothing. The trail stopped with Regina."

"Maybe that was the intent," Brass' expression was dark. "Rebecca and Bobby better sing like canaries."

"Odds are they won't," Nick cleared his throat gently. "But we've solved more with less."

"For Catherine's sake, I hope we can," Sara started. "I have a feeling they're not done with her. If they've tried to kill her once…"

"They'll try again," Nick finished.

"Trail's going cold," Brass said. "We're running out of time… and suspects."


	9. Kismet

The mood that settled over the lab was a quiet one for the first time in several days. People were intent on their work, their noses buried in their hardcopies as they moved from point A to point B. Nick finished his typing, clicking the mouse and leaning over to pull the paper from the printer as it slid out.

"There's not much here to go on," he said, reading it over before clipping it into a folder.

"This whole thing is just one friggin' mess," Warrick said, setting down the paper he was reading. "What'd you get from the parents?"

"Not much," he shrugged, reaching to the pager on his belt. "Did yours just go off?"

Warrick nodded, gathering up his papers, "Here we go…"

Nick followed him out and to the break room.

Everyone had an armful of papers, seating themselves around the table. Brass plunked down a scrumptious box of doughnuts in the middle of the table to lighten the weight of the long shift. Warrick was pouring a fresh pot of coffee. Nick grabbed a water from the fridge and sat down at the pow-wow.

"This is a good news, bad news scenario," Brass began. "We clearly have the attention of the Sheriff and the DA and we are now completely in charge of the bombing."

"Is that the good news or the bad news?" Warrick asked.

Brass' eyebrows rose, "You decide. Because this is a major crime against our own, we have to do everything by the book so there is no question about the accuracy of the evidence."

"What we don't need is an impending defense attorney accusing us of being overzealous and making the evidence fit the crime in order to get a conviction." Grissom looked uncharacteristically annoyed as he slid his glasses on.

"We're waiting on a warrant to search Rebecca Dalton's premises, and they're still trying to locate the potential boyfriend, we have a possible address from the cell phone found with Regina Dalton at the department store," Brass said. "We need that warrant, so… give me a slam dunk," Brass took a sip of his coffee.

The all organized their papers.

"We're already two steps behind. The evidence we have is circumstantial, and it points to a murdered suspect we can't talk to. We need to start by establishing a timeline," Grissom finished.

There was heaviness to the room. Tired. Overworked. Worried.

Sara drew a slow breath, tucking her hair behind her ear and opening a folder, shuffling several papers as she began to read. "Okay… first crime. Three boys killed at a cemetery, one with a gunshot, the other mauled by an undetermined pit bull terrier breed, and the third has a heart attack. A fourth escapes, lays out rubber to tires that currently are the ones of choice for a Honda Civic, two different sets of tires on the front and the back." She reached and picked up a doughnut, taking a bite. "Various scientific equipment recovered, fingerprints match all three vics at the scene, a fourth set unknown. A hole in the fence off an access road confirms possibly entry of the killers. Footprints and tire prints recovered from the access road are inconclusive; fibers recovered from the fence are 100 cotton from a white tee shirt. A bullet recovered from vic #2 matches a bullet recovered from a gang related multiple murder six months ago."

"I pulled the film from the cameras found at the cemetery," Greg said, pressing his eyes shut tightly and refocusing them as if he was trying to stay awake. "The pictures were a rough job. They were out of focus and just plain bad. Someone definitely didn't know how to use them. The shots recovered at the scene were random shots of them as they were setting up." He paused a moment, picking out a few choice pictures. "But! I cleaned them up enough to see the photographer in the reflection of the car's tinted windows. After a lot of cleaning up, this picture clearly shows the ambiguous twin's hair is blonde, allegedly confirming Regina's presence at the scene. It also confirms the vehicle is a Honda Civic. An interview with one of the victim's parents said that they were picked up by a friend in a Honda Civic." He flopped the folder on the table and got up, pinning the photos to the wall. "I tested a hair from the combing we took from the girl in the department store, her hair is brown and has been chemically processed. So it could have been blonde, but how could she have been kidnapping the same time she was dirt napping?"

"We're getting ahead of ourselves…" Grissom started. "Just the facts, we'll draw conclusions later." He finished his writing and looked up at the pictures. One particularly caught his attention and he got up to take a closer look, sipping his coffee.

Sara looked at the pictures and continued, "I was able to pull the surveillance photos from the intersections. A Honda Civic with a blond driver. We got one really good shot," she handed the pic to Greg to pin up. "The pic matches the police sketch, Lindsey ID'd her."

Nick looked over his notes and took over, "We got a call to the department store the following evening. A girl was shot at point blank range in the department store dressing room. The bullet matches the one pulled from the murder at the cemetery. A camera identical to the equipment recovered at the cemetery was in the dressing room with her and was missing a memory card. Clothes found in her bag were Lindsey's size, some identical to one's she was wearing when she appeared at the station. They still had the store tags on. Her ID identified her as Regina Dalton. Her prints did not match the fourth set of prints found at the cemetery even though the vegetation in her hair placed her there. Her prints did match the ones on the camera and were the only ones on it. She also had a large amount of cash. Fingernail scrapings did not match the dirt content of the cemetery, they were consistent with high end potting soil."

"Catherine got the call from her sister while you were at the department store about Lindsey." Brass interjected. "I interviewed all the personnel at the ballet studio, and they confirmed the police sketch was accurate. A girl matching the description from the camera and intersection surveillance picked up Lindsey from ballet class at the same time Regina Dalton was found at the department store. I took the police sketch to the studio and they confirmed it was the same person."

"The parents then took their sweet time coming to ID Regina," Warrick said. "Dr. Robbins told us that the parents took three hours to get to the morgue even though they live a few miles away. I also talked to the funeral director where Regina's body is being prepared and he told me that the father called him to make temporary arrangements before they came in to ID her."

"There were just so sure…" Nick frowned, taking a drink of his water as he looked at his notes.

Warrick acknowledged Nick'c comment and continued, "Twenty four hours after Lindsey went missing, she shows up in the lobby, no knowledge of where she's been and sporting new clothes. Her clothes were from the same department store where Regina Dalton was killed, and some were identical to those found in Regina's bag."

Grissom stood back from the pictures, looking to his folder again. "Lindsey tested positive for Rohypnol, a bottle from the studio was spiked and explains why there were no defensive wounds. No one could confirm whether or not our suspect was in the studio or how the water got in there. There were also no signs of sexual assault. I was able to get hairs from Lindsey's clothes, **_brown_** and processed; but they did **_not_** match Regina Dalton. Her backpack then, blew up."

Nick handed off the folder to Grissom. "Pipe bomb," he said simply. "Anyone could have made it. There weren't enough parts to pull prints or tool marks. The timer was attached to a generic digital clock you could get at any store in the city. Nails and other generic projectiles were in it. It was definitely meant to kill someone, probably Catherine. I'm at a dead end though as far as tracing it, we'd have to find identical supplies at a suspects place in enough amounts to be incriminating."

"We can't confirm a place of residency," Brass said. "That's part of the problem. Regina seemed to be sponging off of people. The only address we have is for a cell phone bill. We think it's the boyfriend."

Warrick placed several camera stills on the wall with the others. "Surveillance tapes around the precinct caught a late model Honda Civic dropping Lindsey off, no view of the driver."

"Today we spoke with Regina's mother. Regina has a twin sister, Rebecca. Rebecca owns a Honda Civic, and mom was adamant her sister was at college and did not change her hair color," Sara finished the doughnut.

Grissom was silent, his fingers steeped as he tapped them against his lips. "So Lindsey's kidnapper and the fourth person at the cemetery allegedly involved in the murder of those boys is not the same person that was murdered at the store, even though the suspect is visually connected to both crimes. We're looking at a frame-up."

"You think Rebecca isn't as innocent as she looks?" Nick asked.

"It's the only explanation right now for the evidence we have." Grissom squinted again at the pictures. "The hairs on Lindsey and the prints at the cemetery do not belong to our dead girl, even though the police sketch is a match. That substantially implicates Rebecca."

"Rebecca had access to the car, knew the boys were going to be there, had the time to kidnap Lindsey and the away time from mom and dad to orchestrate and pull off murders," Brass said, writing on his notepad.

"But no motive," Grissom said. "And if she was kidnapping Lindsey, who was killing her sister and planting evidence at the department store? The cemetery evidence also points to more than one person."

"Where there's an accomplice, there's opportunity for more evidence," Sara said. "I think Rebecca had a beef with the boys and her sister, bumped them both off. Rebecca dyes her hair to match Regina's and does the deeds as Regina, she then dyes it back and claims innocence. Regina gets pegged for the crimes, and the evidence is enough to complete the circle and keep us off her back."

They all seemed to nod in agreement at the theory.

"Except the car," Nick started. "How'd Regina get the car?"

Their conversation faded into the back of his mind as Grissom stared at the pictures on the wall. "What if the girl at the funeral home is Rebecca?"

The silence in the room was palpable.

"What if blonde Regina had the grudge, and it was a tit for tat killing. A pact. She assists in the murder at the graveyard and kidnaps Lindsey in return for someone to kill Rebecca and plant evidence," Grissom continued. "She then dyes her hair and becomes Rebecca, counting on everyone to blame Regina because the parents believe she did it."

Sara continued, "Their mother said that she didn't even know what color hair she had anymore, but she knew Rebecca's never changed."

"So our constant is Rebecca. Our variable is Regina." Grissom was writing again. "Regina banked on that, and exploited it."

Greg grinned even wider. "We pulled her cell phone records. Regina made a call to Rebecca the afternoon she was killed."

Warrick leaned back in his chair. "She could have lured her to the department store. Someone pops Rebecca and then plants the evidence. We need to find out if they ever shared the car, and get the surviving twin's prints."

Grissom smiled slightly.

"If Regina has assumed Rebecca's identity, wouldn't the parents know?" Greg asked.

"By the reaction of the parents? Probably not," Sara said.

"But why kill and frame her sister?" Greg asked.

"To get away with it," Nick said simply. "Why be a shadow when you can be the golden child? I saw those pictures at the house; it was very obvious who the favorite child was. I agree with Grissom, Regina concocts a crime specifically making it obvious that she did it, then gets rid of the only person who can finger her, Rebecca. Neither girl has prints or DNA in the system. Perfect crime."

The room was silent.

"The girl in the funeral home is Rebecca," Sara blinked. "Regina has assumed her identity to get out of trouble and become the favorite daughter. They're burying the wrong child."

"Is this enough for a warrant?" Grissom asked, raising an eyebrow.

Brass tentatively nodded, "Enough to pay a visit to…'Rebecca' and at least get her prints. After they match the prints on the camera and the fourth at the cemetery… and I'm sure they will, we'll get whatever other warrant we need." He got up, moving into the hallway and making a phone call.

"But… why kidnap Lindsey. Why the bomb?" Warrick's face was confused, annoyed even.

"To throw us off?" Greg guessed. "If it was a pact, would she necessarily really known what it was for?"

"Not necessarily, but you're right Warrick," Grissom said, tapping his pen on the table. "It doesn't fit. It's random. It's off. We know a girl kidnapped Lindsey, but when she returned, she mentioned a he. Who's the he?" Grissom asked.

"Mrs. Dalton mentioned a Bobby Cross," Sara said.

"A crime for a crime. Maybe the 'he' helped at the cemetery, and the 'he's' repayment was a vendetta against Catherine," Warrick leaned forward. "I'll agree with that."

"Pull all the name's on Catherine's cases, cross reference them with this kid," Grissom said to Greg. "The rest of you worked overtime, you need to get some sleep. Brass and I will visit Rebecca and the boyfriend. I'll page you if I need anything."

The silence hung.

"Good work," Grissom nodded, gathering up his things and everyone's reports. "If this is a vendetta against Catherine, it's possible whoever orchestrated it isn't satisfied with the results."

"You think they might come after Catherine again?"

"If our pact theory is true, one party got four murders, the other got a botched bombing. That doesn't seem fair does it?"

"We got our warrant," Brass nodded as he stepped in, "I'll add another uniform at her house."

"What time is it?" Nick suddenly said.

"About eight thirty," Sara said.

Nick looked panicked. "I gotta go," he jumped up suddenly and made a beeline toward the locker room.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Neysa flipped up the cuff of her white linen shirt and looked at her watch. She set the folded newspaper down on the table, running her fingers along the rim of her empty coffee cup.

She knew he would do this.

Sighing, she got up and bussed her table, the weekend morning quiet compared to some of the workday mornings. The sun spilled through the golden sun screens on the front windows, giving the whole café a warm and inviting feel. She didn't feel like being warm and inviting anymore.

Picking up her bag, she made her way to the restroom.

The front door pushed open, Nick's sunglasses clenched tightly in his fingers as he searched the nearly deserted café.

"Dammit," he swore, moving toward the counter. "Was there a woman here, about my height, dark short hair, dark eyes? She would have been alone?"

"Sure," the girl at the counter said, swirling a napkin over a small spill and looking across the cafe. "You just missed her."

One hand went to his hip; the other went to his hair. How was he going to get out of this one?

She stepped out of the restroom, moving toward the door when she spotted him. A sharp pang went through her chest, and she moved in the other direction as she made a wide circle to avoid him.

"Neysa," he started.

…too late.

She kept moving toward the door, his footsteps behind her indicating she wasn't going to get out of this one. His hand stopped the door as she pushed it open. Her look was irritated as she grabbed his wrist and flipped it over to put the watch near his nose.

His face was genuinely apologetic. "I'm sorry, can I explain? Please?"

Neysa's lips pursed tightly, looking down quickly at his clothes, then back to him. "You haven't slept since I talked to you last have you?" She let go of his hand.

He shook his head.

"You've got five minutes," she said.

"I'm going to get something to eat."

She nodded, retaking her original seat. Sitting, she slung her bag over the back of her chair, leaning her temple on her fingertips as he got some coffee and a muffin, coming back to the table.

"Every time I see you, you're dashing from or to something. Do you ever get time off?" she asked.

He took a drink of his coffee. "This one's a little different."

"That girl," she commented. "You know her?"

He nodded. "Her mother is my boss."

She drew a slow breath.

"I shouldn't have told you that," he said, leaning back.

"My lips are sealed," she said.

"We're having a really hard time with it," he said. "I had to deliver a report to my temporary supervisor before I could come down here. It was really important."

She nodded and was quiet for a long time, leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs gracefully. Her palms rested in her lap as she watched him eat, then her eyes turned to watch the scene beyond the window. She didn't seem to want to talk to him.

He felt badly. She was angry with him. He'd promised.

He took another drink of his coffee. She seemed distracted, distant as he watched her profile. Hair was completely brushed back from her face, her features strong and beautiful, devoid of any make-up whatsoever. A sapphire blue camisole peered out slightly from the oversized lined shirt. He was still curious about the silver chain that glinted at her collarbone. Her fingers had moved from her lap, absently rubbing her elbow, one fingertip swirling gently around the bone.

_**She gasped, not able to catch her breath. He pinned her elbow onto the side of the couch with the toe of his boot. A distinct cry of pain escaped her lips as he leaned on it with his full weight. The grunt of pain turned to a scream as he leaned further into it.**_

He chewed slowly, unable to shake the suspicions that burned at the front of his brain like wildfire. He remembered that day, how could he forget?

She took a quick breath, reaching behind her and pulling her wallet from her bag. She flipped through it, pulling out several dollars and set the billfold down on the table.

"Hey, no way," he started. "I got this."

"Mr. Stokes, finish your breakfast. You do not have to buy my coffee."

He nodded slowly as she got up, eyes resting on the billfold that had flipped open on the table. There were several pictures in the clear plastic flaps, the one that was open to him was one of what appeared to be Neysa; a girl held to her chest by one arm as she leaned down behind her and was pressing her cheek against hers. She was about Lindsey's age, bright strawberry blond hair in perfect ringlets had sprung from a loose ponytail. The girl looked like she was wearing a black riding outfit. They were both grinning widely at the camera, Neysa's cheek pressed to hers. Neysa's hair was much longer, the color hard to determine under the black riding helmet she was wearing.

She sat back down, putting her change in the billfold.

"Is that you?" he went out on a limb.

She blinked, turning the picture toward her. "Yah," she half smiled.

A warmth washed over her eyes. He felt compelled to ask.

"You like to ride?"

She nodded. "I used to ride. My ex-husband owned horses. I taught lessons for a while."

"Is the girl a student?"

The air between them suddenly became cold. Her thumb ran across the picture and she turned it to him so he could look again.

"Elina, wonderful child, she loved everything. Riding, singing… life," was all she said as she closed her billfold and put it back into her bag.

"She looks like you," he took a drink of his coffee.

"She's my daughter," her voice was quiet, she was warming her hands on her cup as if she was chilled. Her eyes had focused on the table, and then rose slowly to meet his as if she was ready for a smack across the face. "I married young, I divorced young. She's the only thing I didn't regret."

Her willingness to give him a second chance after the other night finally became clear. She'd mentioned how impressed she was about taking care of Lindsey.

"You're expecting me to leave aren't you?" Nick asked.

"Are you going to?"

"Why would I?"

"Most men bolt at the thought that a potential relationship might be saddled with children."

"I'm not most men."

"That's why I'm still here," she finished, setting her cup back on the table. "To tell you the truth, you look absolutely exhausted. Why don't you head home, we can continue this later?" She pulled a napkin over to her and a pen from her back pocket and wrote down her number. "You seem really busy with this case, I'm just getting in the way," she started. "Why don't you go home and get some sleep. Call me after work tomorrow and I'll come pick you up. We can have a real breakfast."

He nodded, "I like the sound of that."

"Me too," she smiled and kicked back the rest of her coffee as he bussed the table.

They left together, the heat of the pavement already stifling. Her collar ruffled at her neck slightly as she slid on her sunglasses.

"I walked from the hall, I'm heading back that way. The equipment room is calling my name."

"Hey," he started. "I'd like to meet Elina sometime." His face was serious.

"I really wish you could," she pressed her lips together, pulling her bag over her head and across the other shoulder.

"I'm serious."

"Mr. Stokes… Nick," she began.

It got his attention. She'd never called him by his first name. He tried to read her eyes beneath the sunglasses, to no avail.

"Perhaps if there was a man like you ready to save her life, I wouldn't be half way across the world trying to start over."

His lips parted slightly as he realized what she'd just divulged to him. He started to apologize.

"You didn't know," she smiled slightly, her hand resting on his cheek. "It's okay. Don't tiptoe around me because of it okay? Go home and get some sleep."

He nodded slowly. Before he could reach up and touch her fingers at his cheek, she let go; walking back toward the concert hall with her hands in her pockets.

His lips pressed together tightly, it was on the edge of his tongue.

"Do you believe in coincidences?" he asked suddenly before she was out of earshot.

A grin lit her lips as she half turned, studying him for a long time.

"You are a strange cup of tea Mr. Stokes," she began. "I believe in fate." She lingered a moment, then turned and continued walking.


	10. Unraveling

Students were dodging back and forth, slinging backpacks and tipping back designer cups of coffee as they wove through the halls. Brass seemed undeterred as he watched the numbers on the doors climb, finally stopping at the last one on the right.

Grissom waited patiently as Brass knocked. The door chain slid and it opened quietly.

"Rebecca Dalton?" Brass asked.

"Yah?" the heel of her hands went across her eyes as she sniffled and smoothed her hair back into its loose ponytail.

Grissom's gaze traveled over the scratches on the backs of her hands, watching her bloodshot eyes.

Brass pulled a tri-folded piece of paper from his breast pocket. "My name is Detective Brass, this is Gil Grissom from the Las Vegas Crime Lab. We're here to ask you some questions about your sister, Regina's murder. We also have a warrant to search your room."

"I don't know what you're going to find out. I just found out she was killed, I don't even know when," she wiped her eyes again. "I just want to go home, help my parents deal with this."

"And you will, but you might be able to shed light on her habits, and that might lead us to her killer."

She nodded, pulling the door open farther and sliding her hands into her back pockets. Her clothes were casual, jeans low on her slim hips, a baby tee shirt tight on her form. She was, or had been crying. Suitcases lay open on the bed, drawers and closet open.

Grissom noticed the tattoo on her lower back, peeking out from beneath her shirt. It was a yin yang. He pursed his lips.

"Are you leaving?" Brass asked.

"It's the end of the semester," she said with a sarcastic lick.

"Then your exams are over," he continued, face unfazed.

"That's usually what happens at the end of the semester," she kept packing, focusing on stuffing one bag in general to the brim.

Grissom set his case down quietly, pulling on a pair of gloves and opening it. He pulled out a fingerprinting kit.

"We'd like to take your fingerprints and get a swab of your DNA," he said gently.

"Why?" she demanded, throwing more clothes into her suitcase.

"To rule you out as a suspect," he half smiled, a thought on his brain he wasn't divulging.

"Oh yah, I killed my sister. Right in the middle of taking my final exams," she snapped over her shoulder as she stuffed more things into the bag. "We're identical twins, it's the same."

Grissom held up the kit. "It's procedure Miss Dalton."

Her lips pressed together. She reluctantly held both her hands out. Grissom took her fingerprints gently, getting a closer look at the scratches he'd noticed earlier before taking a swab.

"I'm studying botany," she said shortly.

He nodded faintly.

"Roses have thorns," she started. "My final project was in rose breeding."

"Genetics."

"Yes. Can I go wash my hands now?"

Brass nodded as he stepped out the door, watching her as she walked out and down the hall to the bathroom.

Grissom pulled out his mag light, shining it around the room, noting the keys to a car on her desk. He began to photograph and bindle. Peering through the blinds at the parking lot, he spotted the Honda Civic at the end of the line of cars, already packed to the brim with stuff.

"Too bad our warrant doesn't extend to the car out there. I have a feeling she knew we were coming," Grissom said quietly.

"You think she's been getting rid of evidence?"

"Possibly," he answered.

"Depending on what we find," Brass answered, looking in from the hall. "We might be able to extend the warrant."

Grissom looked over the bag she'd been so intent on stuffing. Rifling slightly through the clothes, he pulled a pair of men's boxers from beneath the jeans. There was a flannel shirt and pair of men's sandals, followed by a white tee shirt.

He set the others down and examined it, a distinctive tear on the sleeve missing a section of the hem. He bagged them and kept sweeping the light around the room, bindling various things, plastic boxes used for collecting her specimens catching his attention. They were stacked neatly on her desk, some plant material inside. He bagged them as well. Picking up one of her textbooks, he noticed a dark substance smeared on the cover. He took several swabs, sniffing the pages gently.

"Miss Dalton, do you smoke?" he asked, picking up another book and doing the same as she stepped in the door.

"What the hell?" she snapped.

"That's what a search warrant means," Brass reciprocated her venom with his smooth poise. "It means we get to search your room. Please step outside so Mr. Grissom can do his job."

She huffed, standing outside the door next to him with her arms crossed.

"You didn't answer his question," Brass pressed.

"Look… so I smoked a couple cigarettes… don't tell my parents okay?" her eyes were pleading at the two of them. "Losing Regina is enough of a shock for one week."

Grissom and Brass exchanged disgusted glances. "It takes more than a couple cigarettes to saturate the pages of a book. And, this doesn't smell like cigarette smoke."

She gave Grissom a nasty look.

"So you're comparing a smoking habit of a golden child to the death of a daughter?" Brass asked, suave sarcasm dripping from his words. "At least for this week."

"No," she sniffled again, smoothing the backs of her hands over her eyes. Her look was pure poison. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

"That's why we're here," Brass smiled slightly. "Does your father withhold information from you in order to protect you?"

"Sometimes" she answered. "They know what's best for me. They want me to do well."

"Even if it involves not telling you about your sister's death until after you were done with your exams?"

"That was their decision, not mine!" she hissed. "Don't drag me into this because my parents are jerks."

"Were you surprised your sister was dead?" he asked.

She looked over her shoulder at Grissom's rustling. "No, Regina was a bitch. She only thought of herself. I'm glad she's gone, maybe my mother's ulcer will finally heal now and she can stop popping Valium."

Brass' brow rose a bit. "Her death wasn't a shock to your parents either. Your father went to the funeral home before he even ID'd the body at the morgue. Maybe he did it."

"What?" she asked again, eyes narrowing. "My father would never do such a thing and he'd sue you if he found out you'd even mentioned it."

"Do you use the fact that you're the favorite daughter to your advantage often?"

Grissom held something up the light with a pair of tweezers, dropping it into a bindle and taking more pictures as he listened intently to the conversation.

Her glare was livid.

"Where were you the night of the murder?" Brass asked, increasing the speed of his questions.

"Taking an exam."

"Are you sure about that?" he flipped open his small notepad.

"Positive."

"Which night was that Miss Dalton?" Brass looked extremely interested in the answer. "Oh, wait… you told us you didn't know what night she died. I'm sorry, we've been there already."

She paused, her face flushing sharply.

Grissom paused, leaning down to pull another pair of men's boxers from beneath her bed and hold them up. "Is your boyfriend's name Bobby Cross?"

The glare that came from her was wicked. She was getting backed into a corner and she knew it.

"Perhaps you were with him?" Grissom smiled.

"Regina used to date him, I have no idea what you're talking about. I have no idea where she is, I haven't seen her in months."

Grissom picked up a cell phone from her desk, pressing several buttons. "Would the Bobby's name in your cell phone belong to these boxers? Or is this Regina's cell phone too?"

He bagged the cell phone as her arms crossed even tighter. Her gaze rested on everything else but them.

"Now we have a problem, Rebecca," Brass said. "Your mother gave us Bobby's name. You see, Bobby seems to have a beef with one of our officers. Seems she put him in prison for a couple years for doing bad things. You know what they do to boys his age in prison? Sounds like motive to me to go after our officer and her daughter. His name is in your cell phone, I think if we run some tests on those clothes, they'll belong to him."

"No…no no no…" she started, "I had nothing to do with that, I was here, taking exams. You can check!"

"Yah, the scratches, we know. Roses have thorns," Brass started. "You lied about knowing your sister was dead, Bobby's name is on your cell phone. I think we need to take a trip down to the station."

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Nick squinted at the computer screen, head tilting slightly to one side as he scrolled through the information.

Elina.

No Neysa.

He chewed on his lower lip, intent on the screen as he typed something else.

Grissom wandered toward the interrogation room, brows furling.

"I told you to go home," he started, stopping in a doorway. He took a sip from his cup of coffee, clutching a folder tightly in his fingers.

Nick blinked, looking up suddenly as he closed out the window he was looking at with a click of the mouse. "Something in my report didn't sit right with me, I wanted to make sure it was correct."

"That sentiment seems to be going around. And?"

"It was correct."

"Okay then, since you're here, I need you."

Nick scowled slightly, logging out.

Grissom gestured toward the holding room and they both entered. Brass was in the room with Rebecca. She looked irritated and angry as he continued to ask her questions.

Nick crossed his arms. "You found enough to bring her in?"

"Enough to make it get very interesting," Grissom opened his folder. "We found plant material in her room that matched the plant material at the cemetery, circumstantial at best. Bobby Cross' phone number was in her cell phone, Regina's fingerprints were all over her room. A brown substance on a textbook was indicative of brown hair dye. A pair of boxer shorts from under her bed yielded an unknown male DNA donor, and two vaginal contributions. Rebecca's…"

"And Regina's? Nothing like a little twin action." A grin lit his features.

Grissom's brow rose.

His grin disappeared. "How is that possible you could tell them apart, they're identical twins." Nick finished.

"Both the girls' mother and Rebecca mentioned they were identical twins. These girls were born before DNA was a viable option in identifying twins. The only identifying factor used by their parents was their appearance. These girls are mistakable for each other, hence their parents believed they were identical."

"But they're not?" he frowned, looking at Rebecca.

Grissom grinned as he continued. "At first glance, the DNA from the two crimes were not a match, and it lead us in the wrong direction. Greg finished processing the DNA evidence from our dead daughter. 75 percent of the genetic material is the same. Their fingerprints do not match, and their DNA is only 75 percent a match. Blood type is the same. They're not identical, they're not fraternal."

"Polar body twins?" Nick was intrigued. "No way."

"They seemed to make it a game fooling their friends and family." Grissom took a sip of his coffee. "As a botanist, Rebecca probably was curious when she started studying genetics, but not good enough to successfully cover up a crime."

"So which twin is in front of us?"

Grissom didn't answer, swallowing softly as he watched Rebecca sit back in the chair and cross her arms.

Brass got up and left, joining them on the other side of the mirror.

"We got a warrant for Bobby Cross' apartment, but we got a problem, her parents are on their way and they're pissed. Apparently she gave old mommy and daddy a phone call when she was in the bathroom at the dorm washing her hands. We need to get to his apartment before she can get word to him. These two are in league all right, and they're destroying evidence as we speak. We gotta keep them from contacting each other but…"

"I want my phone call," she hissed, glaring straight at the mirror. "Now!"

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Green eyes narrowed at the dim light coming from the apartment, flicking momentarily toward the dark sky through the trees. The smell of rain was drawn into nostrils, a strong set of lithe fingers righted the scope gently, peering through the magnification and looking beyond the crosshairs into the living room. The curtains were drawn, the fan from the under window air conditioner billowing the curtains enough to cause a gap large enough to see through. A young man's face kept moving into view.

He was smoking, pacing back and forth with a cell phone on his ear. He began to gesture wildly with his hands, clicking the cell phone shut and running his hands through his hair. The phone flipped open again, his thumb pausing over the buttons before finally dialing a number.

His next conversation was much calmer, but urgent. It ended abruptly, and he walked to the window, peering out into the darkness, then moved from view.

Rain was in the air, the scent indicating a sudden deluge inevitable. There was no movement from the apartment for nearly a half hour, a sudden downpour finally breaking the monotony. Rain began to drip from dark lashes as they continued to stare through the scope at the window; patient and motionless as the rain stopped as abruptly as it began.

Suddenly the lights switched off, and the front door opened.

The scope followed his head, crosshairs on the back of his skull, finger tensing on the trigger. They watched him lock the door with a bag slung over his shoulder and trot down the steps to a small car, casting a glance over his shoulder.

Green eyes narrowed over dark features as the finger suddenly moved from the trigger, watching through the scope.

A black SUV and squad car pulled up.

Several men got out, approaching him. His hands went instantly to his pockets, a nervous grin on his face as he greeted the officer and Detective Brass already brandishing a tri-folded paper. Nick adjusted his baseball cap as he got out of the truck with Grissom, watching Brass serve the warrant.

The green eyes pulled back abruptly from the scope, a deep crease through the brow as they watched the scene with normal vision from the tree cover perch across the street.

"Bobby Cross?" Brass asked.

"Yah," he said, fiddling with the cell phone in his pocket.

"We have a warrant to search your apartment. You need to come with us to the station. We have some questions about the murder of Regina Dalton."

His face paled.

Suddenly he dropped his bag and bolted, jumping over a line of bushes and scampering through another line of apartments. The uniform bolted after him, Nick on his heels as Brass called for back up, pulling his gun and moving in their direction. Grissom blinked, removing his case from the back of the truck and waiting until they returned.

He hadn't seen the cell phone hit the ground, sliding under a car in the parking lot.

A lithe form safely concealed the rifle, dropping from the tree perch and moving from the tree cover, intent on the small black phone that had clattered from Bobby's hand under the car, and a specific item in the apartment.

Making a wide loop around the dark alley behind the apartments, she pulled herself strongly up the fire escape to the back window. Kneeling in front of it, she pulled several tools from under her wrist and picked the lock, sliding in. The apartment reeked of marijuana, a haze hanging low in the room. She moved quickly through the apartment, fingers sliding under pillowcases, appliances and couch cushions, finally pulling out a gun from beneath the mattress of his room, complete with a silencer. She moved past the front door, pausing to press herself against the wall next to it.

Voices were sharp outside, Bobby's protest softened by Brass' voice.

"We can break your door, or you can give us your key," he said. "We have a warrant."

Green eyes flicked over the room, and the quickest way out.

The front door clicked open.

She pressed herself flat against the wall as the door opened, pushing all the way back to touch her nose. Holding her breath, she listened to Brass step into the room, merely inches away, finger tensing on the trigger of the pistol.

"Are you packing?" Brass asked someone outside.

"Yah," Nick's voice answered.

Brass took a step back outside the door, waiting for something unknown.

She took the opportunity, sliding from behind the door to the right and into the kitchen, slipping out the same window she entered from and immediately laying down on the fire escape as the light shone through the window above her head from Brass' mag light.

Brass stepped close to the window, looking out. His nostrils flared slightly, scenting something wet. He turned back to Nick.

"It smells like rain in here," he said quietly.

"Yah, I noticed that too," Nick's voice was quiet, shining his light on the floor. He knelt down. "Tile has water on it. Someone else was in here."

She slid over the railing suddenly, sliding down the stairs and swinging around to the front again. Crouching between the cars in the parking lot, she tucked the gun in the back waistband of her pants and began her quest for the cell phone, moving from car to car until she was close enough to reach it, watching the feet on the other side of car from the ground.

She could barely reach it, sliding it into her pocket and leaning up high enough to peer through the tinted glass of a car, watching the uniform put Bobby into the back seat of the squad car. Leaning her back against the car, she waited until they cleared toward the apartment and regained her perch across the street. Righting the scope again and watched Nick move to the back and open the hatch, pulling out his case. The crosshairs rested on his shoulder a moment.

He suddenly paused, fingers resting on his gun as he stared across the parking lot.

Green eyes narrowed, following his line of vision.

He picked up his case and closed the hatch, moving into the apartment.

She waited patiently; watching the uniform stand vigil at the door, then walk in after them

The crosshairs rested through the car window on the back of Bobby's head, the silent 'thwpt' spiderwebbing the glass in the back of the squad car, dark crimson spattering the windows. The rifle flipped to an upright position as she immediately slid from her spot and slipped into the darkness.

Grissom frowned, looking toward the open door.

"Do you smell that?"

"Blood," Nick said, pulling his gun.

Grissom pulled off his gloves and slid his glasses onto his head as he moved toward the front door. "Dammit!" He jumped down the stairs several at a time toward the squad car. "Call a paramedic!"


	11. Death Threats

"You're still watching this?" Archie asked quietly, taking a step into the room and leaning over Sara. A fast food bag was clutched in his fingers, lips taking a drink from the last of the soda as it gurgled.

Sara looked bleary-eyed, taking quick sips from a cup of coffee as she kept rewinding the same section of infrared video and replaying over and over. "What does that look like to you?"

"Your tenth cup of coffee," he ribbed before squinting at the screen, watching three heated figures emerge from the cool shade of the wooded area of the cemetery. "It looks like the suspects in the cemetery murder. I've been over this footage, it confirms point of entry for the killers and the fact there are three but there's no way we can identify anyone we're looking at."

The recording suddenly turned as the cameraman started to run, cutting off sharply as the camera was dropped against a headstone. She rewound it again, waiting patiently as the minutes at the very beginning of the footage ticked by. "There," she pointed.

Archie frowned, leaning toward the screen, watching something fly up suddenly from the ground and disappear into the cool blue hues of the brush without hesitation. It was incredibly light, barely registering as heat, and far away.

"They saw it too, the screen is centered in on it before it turns to the woods." Sara chewed on her thumbnail.

"It's a bird of some kind, or a reflection from their lights on a headstone. Reflections carry heat signatures."

"A bird that hovers stationary with no wing movement, then turns and moves toward the woods? And… headstones don't move. There isn't a monument that high in the graveyard."

"A really big bug?" he offered with a grin.

She smiled sarcastically, "Enhance this please or I'll just be here for the rest of the night staring at a really big bug."

Archie grinned, but was definitely intrigued by her curiosity. Tossing the fast food bag and cup in the trash, he sat and began to adjust the colors. He kept rewinding and reworking, the colors sharper and sharper, then graying to black and white.

"I'm going to get another cup of coffee," Sara announced.

"I take mine black," he said.

She resisted the urge to bop him on the back of the head as she stepped out the door, watching Nick at the far end of the hall move in determined strides toward the morgue. The place was buzzing. She stopped at Grissom's office; he wasn't there. Retrieving coffee, she wandered back to Archie and set the cup on the desk next to him. With fresh eyes, the form he had drawn from the minute color variances was painfully clear.

"That's a person, laying on the ground, barely showing a heat signature," Sara said with an astonished surprise, chewing on her thumbnail again. "How long do you think it would take for your skin and your clothing to adjust to the temperature around you?"

"A really long time, I would assume your clothing would adjust, your skin temperature will fall but never completely though. It looks like as the figure stood and took off toward the woods, the heat signature in its face is what caught the boys' attention. The rest had to be clothed."

"Gloves too?" Sara asked. "That doesn't make any sense, why would anyone lay in a cemetery for that long wearing gloves?"

"Drunk maybe? Someone gets drunk, wanders into the cemetery and passes out?"

"Only to wake up exactly when a group of ghost hunters starts moving toward you," her look was annoyed, disbelieving. "At the same time they were murdered?"

He gave her a long look.

"There was someone else in that cemetery," she looked at Archie. "Someone else was waiting for these boys. Someone good enough not to leave a trail for us to find."

"Nobody is that good," Archie said, stopping the tape. "Especially with you on the case."

Sara grinned, "That almost makes up for making me get you coffee."

"What's that look like to you?" he paused it, pointing at a small variance in the color at the end of what looked like was an arm.

"A gun," she said blankly as she stood. "It has to be. We have a fourth gunman. Check the footage I pulled again from the traffic cams. See if there is any car that seems to be following our Honda Civic… just in case. I'm going to head back out there and see what I missed."

She quickly moved out the door, intent on only one thing.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

"This is a through and through." Robbins peered closer at the exit wound. "Precise. One shot. Entered at a slightly downward angle through the left occipital bone and out the right frontal bone near the temporal line, taking most of the side of his face with it. Definitely no chance of survival."

"We still can't locate the bullet or the brass." Nick's face darkened considerably. "This doesn't match our guns in the cemetery case."

"No. No bullet, jacket, or fragments. To go through the back of a police cruiser, probably high power, close range," Robbins pulled his gloves off and tossed them in the biohazard.

"We didn't see anyone, there was a cop at the front door of the apartment."

"Extremely high power, long range then," Robbins concluded. "The slightly downward angle signifies an elevated position of the shooter."

Nick looked at the wound for a long time. "A sniper rifle," he said under his breath, particularly to himself. "Someone didn't want him talking to us."

"He had scratches on his legs AND his feet. He was wearing sandals when he was brought in so I pulled scrapings from his toenails and sent them to trace. His fingernail scrapings and blood are there now as well."

"Great. We're running out of time to hold Rebecca Dalton. We're gonna need everything we can to throw on the table, dad's a lawyer," Nick nodded, a sharp frown making the stern look unusually hostile. "Thanks doc," he said as he moved toward trace. "Hey Archie," he asked. "Have you seen Sara?"

"She left a few minutes ago to go back to the cemetery," he cued up the footage again. "Check this out."

Nick pulled his pager and paged her, sliding it back onto his belt as he watched. "That's a person."

"Yah, that's what Sara said. She thinks there's a fourth shooter so she went back to make sure she didn't miss anything."

He nodded, "Good call."

"You look like you have something on your mind."

"Don't we all," Nick answered as he stepped out and finished his trek toward trace. His pager went off. Looking at it, Brass, he picked up his pace. "Tell me you have something good," he said to Hodges as he stepped in the door.

"I always have something good." He rolled across the room on his chair and picked up a set of folders, handing them to Nick. "The toenail scrapings from toke-boy match the cemetery contents. Tox screen and hair follicle says he smoked WAY too much maryjane. The torn tee shirt contains his epithelials, and the cloth Sara found on the fence is a visual match to the shirt as well. The tee shirt was…"

"Found in Rebecca Dalton's bag," he finished the sentence to hurry up the encounter. "Thanks."

"Oh… and those scattered parts you found at Bobby Cross' after he ruined the inside of the cop car are a positive match for the materials in the bomb that blew up the lobby. The bomb was made or partially made at his apartment," he handed the folder to Nick. "And the icing on the cake…the chemicals used in making the bomb can be found at any college greenhouse."

Nick's smile widened as he collected the folders and took them to the interrogation room. He could hear the voices before he even got within ten feet. Nodding at the uniform at the door, he entered. Brass was speaking quietly to an enraged father as Rebecca sat with her arms crossed, letting dear old dad do all the work for her.

"Where's your proof!" he demanded.

Nick sat quietly next to Brass, opening a folder and interlacing his fingers on the table. "Mr. Dalton, I'm Nick Stokes, one of the investigators on this case. We have a lot to talk about. Are you acting as Ms. Dalton's attorney?"

He nodded.

"Then I suggest you start acting like one," Brass finished calmly, a look of pure seriousness washed on his features. "Let's go over this again."

The father sat down. He was an overly large man, broad shoulders and posture signaling military training of some kind in the distant past, the experience now curdled and warped into a self indulged right to be a bully.

Brass folded his fingers to match Nick's. "Three boys were murdered at a local cemetery, a fourth person escaped. Your daughter Regina, the fourth person was found murdered at a local department store. But at the same time, a person matching her description was kidnapping a young girl."

"The young girl being the daughter of someone in your department? And so now what? You all are involved beyond the boundaries of the case so you make the evidence crucify Rebecca? The only remaining daughter I have?" Rebecca's father said sarcastically.

"Actually, I don't believe this is Rebecca," Nick cleared his throat decisively.

The father blinked in disbelief. Rebecca's expression never changed, the cold and unnerving stare was straight down her nose at Nick, who returned the look without a flinch.

"The fingerprints our detective took of your daughter here matched a fourth set of fingerprints found at the original murder scene," Nick continued.

"Our girls are identical twins, they both have the same fingerprints."

"Actually, they're not, and they don't. Our relatively recent access to DNA processing has led us to other alternatives in the twinning development. The evidence collected from both scenes is only 75 percent a match; it's called Polar Body twinning. Your murdered daughter, who this young lady claims is Regina, was not a match to the evidence or prints found at the cemetery, even though plant material was found in her hair that placed her at the graveyard. 'Regina's' fingernails yielded evidence of the exam project she was showing. Your murdered daughter was never at the cemetery, the college confirmed she was taking an exam the night of the murder, fingerprints have confirmed it. She was placed there to cover up a crime committed by your daughter here, and her boyfriend Bobby Cross."

Her father's mouth opened, then closed quickly.

"Should've paid more attention in genetics class… Regina," Brass started, "or at the very least made sure everything you learned would be true before you tried to pull off the perfect crime. Tired of being the pariah of the family? You want to be the golden child so you steal Rebecca's identity and ask your boyfriend to help you?"

She didn't say a word, the same expression on her face, the same crossed and defiant arms as she continued the wicked stare at Nick.

"So why'd you kidnap the kid? Bobby helps you off your sister, you help him get revenge on our CSI who sent him to jail?" Brass pushed.

The father was in a stunned silence, a look of disgust creeping over his features as the thought of his prized daughter being replaced by this one bored into his thick skull. He got up suddenly, walking toward the door.

"You're on your own," he said quietly. "You'd stoop to any level. Your own sister! You disgust me."

He opened the door and slammed it behind him.

Brass looked falsely sympathetic.

"Let's cut the crap," Brass started, wasting no time. "You're on your own now, no daddy to protect you. Your boyfriend is sitting in our morgue with the side of his face blown off. Help us help you."

Her forehead flickered as Brass mentioned her boyfriend. Nick caught the movement, his eyes traveling over the side of her neck; there were faint bruises there, like pressure points from fingertips.

"You didn't know your boyfriend was dead?" Brass said.

"Where did you get those bruises?" Nick asked.

Brass blinked at Nick and the sudden shift in subject. She had started to sweat, her face flushing as the droplets sprung to her temples.

She pressed her lips together and held her hands out. "I'm not telling you a damn thing," she quipped, overly eager to be taken into custody. "You might as well just arrest me."

Brass stood up, nodding to the uniform that began to cuff her as he read her rights.

"Don't do this Regina," Nick said. "We can help you."

Brass nodded, his voice soothing, "You need to give us something to save your ass, because you're the only one still alive that we know of to take the fall for this."

"None of you can help me," the look she gave Nick as she left was chilling, the fear in her eyes palpable. "I'm already dead… and so are you… all of you…"

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Sara parked the truck, the darkness of the unlit cemetery oppressive. She got out, pulling her case and turning on her mag light as the officer parked behind her. It was the same one as before, she laughed to herself. He was going to chicken out on her again.

"You don't have to come with me this time," she smiled, wading into the yellow grass and the darkness. "You're off the hook."

He opened his trunk to pull out his mag light. "I'm coming with you willingly this time. I don't feel like getting teased any more."

She was already out of earshot. A crunch of brush caught her attention from the obscurity of the woods that led to the fence. Her eyes squinted as she shined her mag light into the thickness, a shadow moving out of the corner of the beam. Face frowning, she stepped in, shining her light in a circle. Her pager vibrated gently and she looked at it, Nick. She wasn't going to call him back at the moment, sweeping the light around again and catching something out of place in the darkness.

White shoes.

The steely smell of blood.

Her fingers gripped the gun in her holster, not pulling it yet.

The rubber of her shoe bumped something soft, flexible in the shadows, her light instantly shining to the ground to illuminate a motionless hand.

Breath paused in her lungs, coming in short gasps. She was being watched.

Backing slowly toward the clearing, she panned the mag into the brush past a cluster of gravestones. The small beam sliced wanly through the thick darkness, the light revealing the body with its neck twisted at an odd angle. The back of her shoe bumped against another and she lost her balance, falling backwards. Wet, sticky warmth quickly soaked into her pants and coated the hand that had broken her fall. Her gun had clattered at her side.

She found her voice, lips parting to call the uniform, closing in silence at the cold feel of a steel muzzle behind her ear.

She heard the cop close the door to his car, calling her name as his flashlight shone into the cemetery.

"Sara?" he called.

Silence, a sharp flash and gunshot suddenly lighting up the woods.

"Sara!" he screamed.


	12. Avowal

Several lone stars twinkled at the apex of the barren sky, alone and bright between the black leaves. The few glittering stars were incredibly drawing, cold, and mesmerizing as they fought to be seen in the urban sky. Intense city lights at the horizons remained completely blotted out by dark tree canopies that shifted when the warm wind moved.

The world was completely silent, the air hollow and lonely. A parched tongue slid out to lick dry lips, trying to find a voice… trying to figure out what was happening. Her thoughts wouldn't congeal, ghostly whispering permeating the silence… conversations ebbing in and out of her unconscious mind. It was as if the shadows spoke to her… urging her to fall deeper and deeper into a world far from the one she was desperately clinging to. They comforted her, beckoned her toward a darker place… the stale smell of dust and death settling on her bones.

Was this what it felt like to die?

She forced her lungs to move, the sound a painful choke, breath ragged and heavy as it exhaled more than inhaled. Her chest wouldn't draw a breath, brain becoming slow… sleepy as she struggled to breathe.

…it was so much easier just to stop fighting…

A sudden gunshot shocked her out of unconsciousness.

"You bitch!" a male voice escaped, the steely smell of blood spattering from his lips. "No… no… No! I'm sorry! Don't kill me! **_Please….!_**"

The ferocity of the words again jolted her body. It wasn't directed at her… there was someone else there…

Brush crunched near her, the strain of a vicious fight reaching sharply into her cloudy awareness. The world was continuing on without her, moving around her. She felt pooled in a void of time, trying to catch up. Her shoulder ached, wedged between the ground and a sharp stone…warm, wet… The back of her skull throbbed, screamed in intense pain. Glazed eyes focused blearily on her mag light on the ground several feet away, illuminating a sharp beam of light across the dirt, and the face of a body bleeding near her. Warm blood crept around her fingers, unclear if it was her own or the body lying next to her.

She kept resisting the urge to sleep…

Her breath fluttered finally, drawing sharply as she fought for consciousness. Staring into the pair of glazed and lifeless body's eyes, she struggled to move. Urging her body once more to get up, it didn't respond, the cold stone of an ancient gravemarker pressing against her ear as she lay there. Yet again the whispers called, urged her to give up. A trickle of blood began to ooze over her temple, sliding down the side of her cheek to pool under her eye. It continued slowly over her nose, dripping from the bridge to the headstone.

It splashed, a tiny spatter on her cheek…

The minute sound seemed to thunder against her consciousness. Seconds dragged by in what felt like muted and murky hours as the droplet became a stream, and she again lost her struggle to remain conscious.

"Sara!"

Another gunshot into the air struck her from her daze.

The officer was fiercely calling for her as he called for backup, the wail of shrieking sirens already in the distance over the hushed traffic of a far-away expressway. His mag light shone into the woods, another gunshot from within the woods sending him diving for cover yet again.

Again the choke… dust sputtering at her lips as she drew an enormous breath.

"I'm here…" she found her voice in a threadbare whisper, her head echoing the sound painfully within her skull. How many times had she been hit? "Here…" her voice was a little stronger.

Only seconds had passed since she had been originally struck.

Another gunshot ripped from the woods, the feminine cry of pain accompanying it turning into a fierce growl. The sudden sound of a knife blade was sharp, male grunts of pain as the brush continued to snap.

Sara's head threatened to burst as she frantically blinked to clear her head, squinting in the darkness as her finger twitched gently. Fresh blood was being spilled in the darkness merely feet from her, the fight now brutal and deadly. A man was crying out in pain, pleading for his life as he was tortured. He was being punished for hurting her.

A fire lit in her chest, an incredible drive to get up forcing her hands to pull underneath her chest and try to press herself up. The world began to spin, sending a burning stream of bile up her throat. She fought to keep it down, grimacing as it aspirated on a deeply drawn breath.

Her face one again came to rest on the cool stone of a headstone.

"Sara!" the officer called again, hearing a man cry out in pain and gurgled sobs. The officer crouched with gun drawn, straining to see into the darkness with his mag light, only catching glimpses of struggling shadows before another shot slammed into his vest square in the chest, sending him flat on his back into the grass. A sickening thud was sharp as he hit his head on a stone. He was still, the crackle of his radio sharp in the sudden silence.

Sara heard the shot and the calm of her friend with tearing eyes, finally able to focus through searing skull pain on a face, the edge of a gun, and a shadowed stand-off several yards from her. A man lay on the ground, his hands half way in the air in a defensive position as he begged for his life. Three precise shots were fired into his chest, illuminating a feminine figure on the other end of the gun. As he fell backward, she tossed the gun and what looked like a cell phone next to him, reaching to hold her arm.

The silence hung for a drawn moment, the crackle of the officer's radio in the distance.

The woman's shadow loomed, foreboding and still, as her breath calmed. Pain slowly unraveled from her forehead as she cleaned a knife on the man's shirt and returned it to a sheath somewhere under her pant leg. Dark eyes looked toward the top of the hill where a small dirt path led to the road.

She suddenly stepped over her kill to Sara, kneeling next to her and touching her neck to find a pulse.

"Sara…" she urged. "Don't move…"

Sara's eyes fluttered.

"You killed these men…" Sara's voice was quiet, unfocused, words hoarse. Her eyes were glitching, flashing with blobs of shadows. Her fingers clumsily groped for her gun as she felt a tug at the bottom of her shirt as it was ripped, the torn piece of cloth then pressed to the back of her head.

The woman was silent, slowly turning her over onto her back and sitting in the dirt and darkness. She rested Sara's head on her lap and continued to press the cloth to the back of her head, reaching for the small mag light and balancing it on top of a gravestone pointed toward the entrance to catch the attention of the approaching sirens. The fingers of her free hand finally rested on her neck, carefully monitoring her pulse.

"I can't feel my body… was I shot?" warm tears slid across the now drying stream of blood under her eye.

She was met with silence. "You weren't supposed to be here…" the voice was incredibly quiet, regretful.

Sara's brain began to spark. The gun. The phone. Two murdered. "You killed those men… on purpose…" she said again.

The silence again was long, Sara's consciousness flickering in and out like a shorted television. Her adrenaline was moving, her muscles jerking as it tried to take hold but wouldn't. She should have been afraid, but wasn't… she felt, safe?

"If I don't wake up…" Sara started.

"You're not going to die," the voice was hushed, low, barely there, the timbre deeply chilling.

"Tell…" her voice was getting softer, the blood already soaking the piece of cloth. She could feel the stranger's fingers press deeper into her neck to find a pulse.

"You can tell him yourself…"

Sara's eyes fluttered again, trying to wrap conscious thought around what had just been said.

A flash of red and blue lit up the darkness as the screech of sirens and paramedics pierced the cemetery gloom.

"Help is here," she whispered, starting to get up.

"Don't go…" Sara started, her voice slipping.

She felt Sara's pulse falter, a deep crease on her brow. Taking the pressure off the back of her head was not a good idea.

"Over here!" she demanded, sliding the now unconscious Sara gently to the ground, keeping the pressure on the back of her head.

She stayed with her as long as she could, kneeling next to her and holding the back of her skull. The rustle of dry grass came closer and closer until finally she could hear voices. They'd found the officer. Lights flashed through the darkness, her face lacing with a tense frown as she waited until the last moment.

The crunch of brush was twenty yards away, ten… five… her body finally rising to a stealth crouch and gently resting Sara's head to the ground. She backed silently toward the fence, staying just out of the reach of their lights without attracting attention. She stopped, lingering at the fence, watching from the shadows, the slick of warm blood still on her hands.

"Sara?" the male voice was familiar, lights shining across Sara's body. "Sara!" Grissom knelt instantly, checking her pulse and her breathing.

The paramedics rushed in, Grissom's face catching the light as he stood and let them do their work, watching them envelope her with their portable machines and care. His face was eerily calm, looking at her deathly pale lips.

They started to run IV lines, struggling to get a board in a position to lift her through the brush, a collar snapping sharply around her neck. Sara was on her way to the awaiting ambulance, the small woods suddenly quiet.

The world spun, became numb. Time had passed so quickly, the silence was welcome.

Grissom's eyes were scared, wild as he searched the darkness with his flashlight, trying to make sense of what was happening. He wanted to go with her, but also knew he had to stay. He had a duty to do his work and a loyalty to do it well.

Eyes closed briefly, silencing the panicked tremor in his hand with a clenched fist, then reopened to focus harder than he ever had to before. His light continued to move through the shadows, the pain in his chest urging his eyes to find something, something solid, something to grab on to. He had to…

Lips parted, flashlight resting on the blood of a man with gunshot wounds to the chest, a gun and cell phone lying nearby. The paramedics had called his death and moved to the next body.

"Get my case! At the edge of the trees!" he snapped to an officer, he'd dropped it when he saw Sara. Kneeling next to him and examining the perspiration still attached to the man's upper lip. His mag light traveled over the man's body, noting the excessive amount of blood and a cut throat. Three gunshots to the chest. Overkill. Torture. The killer was sending a message.

The officer set the case next to him.

"We're calling for back-up," the officer said.

"No back-up," he answered. "Don't move anything, don't touch anything. Everyone needs to leave the vicinity of the woods. I'm doing this alone."

The officer nodded with an annoyed look, but followed his instructions.

"Let me know when Sara reaches the hospital, keep me informed in half hour updates."

"Sure thing."

Grissom carefully picked up the gun and examined it, securing and bagging it. The light focused on the ground, following footprints in the dust toward the back fence.

She felt the light slowly lace up her body from her feet, finally washing across her face and holding steady in her eyes. She turned her head, giving him a sharp view of her profile. The beams spindled as she lifted her hand to shade her eyes from the light, blood on her hands glittering.

The beam suddenly dropped from her features to the ground, delving her again into shadow.

Grissom stared at the ground; lips pressing tightly, brain soaking in what he'd just seen.

"Is there someone back there?" the officer said sharply as he stopped, pulling his gun.

She stepped out through the hole and disappeared down the deserted road.

"Just a shadow," Grissom said darkly, taking a slow breath.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

"Firing two shots!" Nick's voice snapped.

His finger squeezed the trigger of the gun found at the cemetery with Sara, the rounds sinking to the bottom of the tank. He pulled off his eye and ear protection and tweezed them out, sliding them under magnification to compare them with the casings from the first cemetery and department store murders.

A sigh seethed through his nose, hand sliding across his forehead. They were a match.

He looked up as Warrick came down the hall, hands moved to his hips.

"Hey," Warrick's voice was soft as he stepped in. "She's stable, Grissom's with her."

Nick let out a slow sigh, sitting down on a stool. The silence between them was heavy, thick.

"What was she doing out there alone?" Nick asked.

"She wasn't alone, she was with an officer, she was following protocol," he started, leaning to look through the scope. "The bullets match."

"Yah," Nick said quietly. "But I have no idea what the hell that means." He pursed his lips "The same gun in the original murders was used to kill all the victims found with Sara. Why can't we get this guy, we keep getting throwing in circles and dead ends…"

"I just came from trace. No prints either, no fibers."

"Dammit," Nick set up the next gun to fire, sliding on his glasses and ear protection.

"We're gonna find this guy, we can't start losing it. We owe that much to Sara and Catherine."

Nick gave him a long stare, Warrick's voice sounding incredibly muted in the hollow silence of the mufflers.

"Then who's next in the meantime? You? Grissom?" the ferocity in his voice was frightening. "Firing one shot!"

Warrick's eyes watched Nick fire without flinch. He secured the gun and slid his protection off, tweezing out the bullet out of the tank.

"How long you been here?" Warrick's voice was concerned.

"I've no idea," he placed it under the scope and looked at it.

"Wearing yourself to the breaking point isn't gonna help," Warrick said quietly. "That's when mistakes get made. Take a break, we have to keep our heads on this."

Nick sighed, pressing his hands over his eyes, the blood pulsing at his temple finally calming. "You're right… but I can't figure out what the hell is happening here. These bullets match the first set of shootings. The gun is registered to Bobby Cross, he reported it as stolen probably to keep the heat off the other murders several months ago. Sara went to the cemetery to follow up on something she saw in the enhanced infrared video. How the hell did that turn into a triple homicide? Regina was in custody the whole time! What the hell is going on here!"

"Nick, take a break..."

"I did some poking around on the cell found with the body, it's Bobby Cross'. Somebody called those gang bangers from Bobby's cell phone, and then lured them to the cemetery to off them."

"Nick!"

His dark eyes blinked at Warrick, a furl in his brow.

Warrick looked back with a concerned glare.

"I'll take a break when we get a break in this case. This is the second time we've let one of our own get hurt… because we've been taking breaks…" Nick's face was deathly somber. "Please, just… help me."

"You can't blame that on us, Nick…"

"We're good enough to catch this guy."

Warrick's lips pressed together tightly and he nodded.

"Bobby Cross allegedly was one of the first three killers. We're looking at another accomplice other than Regina," Nick started, renewed hope on his face.

"Yah, he's sitting on a slab in the morgue," he tossed an open file on the counter. "The other two found at the cemetery were identified as Jeremy Kenton and Victor Weir. They've all got gang-related rap sheets. Add Bobby Cross and they most likely are the three original cemetery shooters. So Regina and her boyfriend concoct a plan to do a little vengeance, then someone reaps vengeance on them, to cover their tracks. Check this out, the third guy offed at the cemetery, Derrick Simmons, was Bobby Cross' half-brother, who was shot with Bobby's gun. Remember when Grissom said if our pact theory is true, one party got four murders, the other got a botched bombing and that didn't seem fair?"

Nick nodded.

"What if this has nothing to do with Bobby and Regina, they're just pawns for something bigger. Someone at a higher point in the food chain uses these kids that Derrick knows as cover for something he wants; all the while convincing the kids they were getting what they wanted. Someone who's seriously pissed at us, all of us. They've gotten to Catherine, and to Sara. Who did we wrong this badly?"

Nick's look was grave; he picked up his cell phone and dialed. Grissom's phone went straight to voice mail. "We need find out who Derrick Simmons is," Nick said, his blood burning hot in his cheeks as he flipped the phone closed without leaving a message. "And who his friends are."

"Dr. Robbins has Derrick on the table right now," Warrick said and moved toward autopsy.


	13. Coup De Grace

The monitor beeped softly, her closed eyes seeming to blink every time the green line spiked. Thoughts were finally clear, dull and tired, but clear. Gunshots still rang in her ears, the sound of a man pleading for his life striking against her eardrums with an eerie echo. It was alive, the whispers still at the back of her skull reminding her it had happened. Gradually, they faded to nothing but the sterile smell of a hospital, the cold subtle beep of a monitor, and a comforting scent she recognized cutting through them both.

Grissom sat quietly in a chair, glasses on the end of his nose. _Moby Dick_ was open in his hand, fingers resting on a passage he'd read over and over but had given up on several hours ago. The fluctuations on the screen with her vital signs had been more interesting, keeping his attention as he rested silently under a wane light. His eyes closed finally, head leaning against steeped fingers on his forehead.

The sound of the monitor beeping steadily was extremely comforting to him.

Why was this happening? He knew what he'd seen, but he didn't know what it meant. Was there a message? What was he missing? He'd contemplated calling Nick, but decided against it until he'd had a chance to speak with Sara.

Sighing gently, he removed his glasses, setting them on the table and running his fingers over his temples; a migraine at the verge of erupting.

Her throat cleared with gentle resonance.

"Grissom?" the voice was extremely soft. She had urged, and her voice had spoken. Her body shifted on the bed to a more comfortable position, a spike of pain at the back of her head making her wince.

"Yes?" the book snapped closed silently and he rolled forward, setting it aside on the table.

"I smelled your aftershave."

He smiled softly, a deep tug at his chest as he touched her arm, unconsciously letting her know he was there.

"What happened?" she asked, shifting again, wincing softly.

"I could ask you the same question."

The monitor continued to beep in the silence. She didn't try to sit up, her fingers pulling the blanket closer around her shoulders. Her face seemed preoccupied, remembering, regaining her bearings, listening to a nurse walk past the door, eyes not yet focusing on anything.

A worried gaze wandered over the bandage on the back of the head, the bruise under her right eye. She looked so pale, the color of the sheets only several shades lighter than her skin. Dark hair was smoothed on the pillow away from her neck and bandage, shining softly from the lamp's glow.

"I'm alive," she said simply with a slow exhale.

"Yes."

Soft tears dotted the corners of her closed eyes. Swallowing softly, she cleared her throat again, face twisting in a repressed sob.

He hesitated, but reached across the bed to hold her forehead to his shoulder. Her fingers gripped the collar of his shirt as she calmed herself. As quickly as it had begun, it was over.

"I don't know why I'm acting like this," she apologized, running the heel of her hands across her eyes. "I'm sorry…"

"You've been through a traumatic experience," his voice was tender. "Don't be,"

She sniffled, still wiping her eyes, regaining her composure as she leaned back, pulling her pillow to lay on her side facing him; somewhat self conscious about the hospital gown.

He let her, reluctant to let go.

"How long?" her voice was hoarse, still pulling herself together. She was embarrassed, embarrassed that he was seeing her like this, embarrassed to have even put herself in the position.

"Seven hours."

It soaked in for a long moment.

"Has anything else happened?"

"No."

Her breathing was steady.

"I went to the cemetery… Archie and I saw something in the infrared video recovered… from the first scene." Her eyes opened gingerly, the light seeming to hurt them. She squinted and tried to focus, rubbing her eyes again with the heels of her hands. "I wanted to see if I could find anything… I had missed," she paused a long time. "There were two bodies… a third…" she stopped again, touching the bandage on the back of her head under a wave of dizziness. "Was I shot?"

Her toes wiggled slightly, as if she was checking to make sure they still worked.

He shook his head, "A bullet grazed the back of your skull, and there is an imprint of the butt of the gun behind your ear. For some reason they missed, and instead of aiming again, they hit you."

He didn't want to press her, but was willing to accept any information she was offering.

They hadn't had time to aim again; they were fighting for their life. She thought hard. "There was a fight… A man… Officer Greene… he was hit…"

"Concussion and stitches, a nice bruise on his chest under his vest; other than that he's fine. He said he couldn't see what was happening; only get close enough to hear the sounds of a fight under gunfire. Do you know who hit you?"

A thick sigh preceded a long breath. "A man…"

"Did he say anything to you?"

Her face twisted slightly, trying to remember. The ear above the bandage was hot, throbbing.

"Nothing…" she said almost absently, the smells and sounds fresh in her brain as if it was happening again. "Somebody was there, watching…"

"There were three dead men there. Which one hit you?"

Her eyes blinked slowly, retracing her steps. "I walked into the woods…" she began to take a mental walk. "I saw white shoes… smelled blood, his neck was broken. I fell over the other… there was a gun to the back of my ear, then… nothing… I came to, and saw the third shot in a fight."

The silence was palpable.

"I don't think I really know who hit me…"

Lips pressed together tightly, this was not going in the direction he wanted it to lead.

"Who shot the third?"

"A woman…" her eyes fluttered. Her fingers touched her waist absently as if remembering the bottom on a shirt. "Tried to stop the bleeding… stayed with me."

"She stayed with you?"

"Told me help was coming, called out… I thought she was an officer…" Sara's face flinched as she remembered. "She called me Sara… the flashlight…" she started.

"The flashlight on the headstone?"

She nodded, swallowing. "The gun… the cell phone… she put them there, did you check for prints?"

He nodded. "She planted the gun and cell phone on the third vic?"

"Yes."

A fierce tingling made him lightheaded. Circles, dead ends, and two naïve girls as the vehicle for murder suddenly made sense. He nodded gently as he stood, sliding his cell phone out of his holder; thumb poised over a number, there was a missed call from Nick.

"How late is it…?" she asked quietly.

"It's late," he began, voice barely there at the turn of events. "Go back to sleep, you need your rest."

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Warrick and Nick waited expectantly, hands in their pockets, their pursed faces reminiscent of waiting for a friend to get permission from his mom to come out and play ball. Robbins scowled slightly, wiping his lips on a napkin.

"Derrick Simmons. You guys really need to catch this killer, I'm almost out of overtime," Robbins began, flipping open the folder for the two of them as he ate his 'dinner'. "Cause of death was massive internal bleeding caused by three gunshot wounds to the chest. He had superficial wounds to his face, a fractured eye socket and a broken nose. But, that's the boring stuff." He set the fork aside, reaching for his braces and moving toward the autopsy room. Putting on a pair of gloves he peeled the sheet back, turning the man's hands over. "He was in one hell of a fight, the lacerations on his knuckles are severe. He has knife wounds on most of his major tendons, including the backs of his hands. Whoever took him out completely incapacitated him first. If he hadn't been shot, these wounds would have killed him within minutes. This fight was brutal and the killer was skilled, almost… punishing."

"Ritual killing?" Warrick asked.

Nick was unusually silent.

"Or a message. I also found trace blood on his hands; I gave it to Greg. Prints?"

"No prints, no fibers. The gun and cell belong to Bobby Cross," Nick finally said.

"So we have three more dead bodies at the cemetery. All gunshots related to this crime spree are from the same gun except the one that killed Bobby?" Warrick looked to Nick to confirm, confusion on his face. "How is that possible since Bobby died before these punks?"

"Bobby wasn't the shooter," Nick started, face angry. "All bullets other than Bobby's match the striations of our silencer that was found with Sara. If Bobby wasn't the shooter and Regina's in holding, we got another killer."

Warrick frowned. "Or the original killer, these are just the peons."

"So, bullets for all, a heart attack, a dog mauling and a broken neck. I'm writing an article for the journal from all of this." Robbins nodded toward the other table. "His neck was broken. No signs of struggle. The other, a trajectory identical to Bobby's."

Nick's hand rifled through his hair, hands resting on his hips. That loosely connected the shootings.

"What are you thinking?" Robbins asked, taking off his gloves, ready to return to his 'dinner'.

Nick's nostrils flared, eyes moving over the body and looking up as Grissom pushed through the double doors. "It's nothing," he said, hands sliding into his pockets. Fingers rubbed against the napkin he'd put there.

"Does the gun match the first murder?" Grissom demanded, pulling off his glasses and flipping a folder closed.

"The gun matches," Warrick answered. "The gun that killed these two is also the gun that killed the Dalton girl and the boy at the first murder scene."

"What about prints?"

"No prints, no fibers. The gun's registered to Bobby Cross, who reported it stolen a couple months ago, the phone is his as well," Warrick said.

"Calls?"

"Calls were to the broken neck and the single gunshot, we're thinking to lure them to the cemetery to kill them, we're not sure how the slash and gunshot, Derrick, fits in. Robbins sent trace to Greg from his hands," Warrick started, rubbing his forehead with his fingertips. "I'm solid on the idea of a higher up calling the shots. Regina helps someone knock off her boys and her sister, then her guy uses Bobby's cell phone to call his accomplices to the cemetery and the gun to close the loop and erase all the evidence?"

"You think she was using Bobby?" Nick asked.

"I don't think our girl is that sophisticated," Grissom said. "I think she was an opportunity for someone. I think someone was using all of them, and Regina was the most ruthless, therefore the most convenient to set-up. Regina's going to take the fall for this."

"She's a patsy pawn who thinks she's being loyal," Warrick said. "So how does Derrick here fit in? Is he the sugar daddy?"

"Sara?" Nick asked, oblivious to the conversation, thoughts still on the gunshots.

"Fine" Grissom said under his breath. "She'll be fine."

"You talked to her," Nick prodded. "What did she say?"

Grissom nodded. "She said the two from the first murder were already dead when she got there, and was fairly sure 'slash and gunshot', Derrick, struck her," he used Warrick's pet name with a raised eyebrow.

"This doesn't make sense. Who killed Derrick? Did Sara get hold of the gun somehow?" Warrick asked. "Maybe she was wrong, and one of the others was alive and pissed enough to get hold of the gun to shoot Derrick."

"I just picked this up from Greg, the blood on his hand belonged to Sara. Sara found the two already dead. Derrick hit Sara. Follow the evidence," Grissom's voice was calculated.

"The evidence says Derrick used the phone to lure the other two there and Bobby's gun to kill them," Warrick said.

"Okay, let's just say Derrick was our guy and he killed Bobby, then lured these two to the cemetery to kill them, then tried to kill Sara," Nick sounded irritated. "Then who killed Derrick?"

"Another suspect, covering their ass with punk kids," Warrick sighed heavily, rubbing his forehead again. "And another member of our team hurt. I don't get it, why didn't they finish her off?" He rolled his lips through his teeth and continued. "Who the hell did we piss off this badly?"

"Perhaps Regina can tell us?" Grissom said quietly.

"Brass said that Regina wouldn't talk because she's afraid of someone; that she said Nick and the rest of us were already dead. We definitely got a ring leader who's being protected by a gullible teenage girl."

Grissom looked at Nick. "You didn't tell me that Nick."

Nick squared his jaw in a defiant expression. "I didn't think it was important."

"Didn't think it was important!" Grissom's voice was uncharacteristically raised. "A suspect won't talk because she says someone's gonna kill us and you didn't think that was important!"

"Hey, Brass didn't mention it to you either," Nick's look was scathing, laced with threads of a previous conversation they'd had. "You told me…" he started, finger already pointed in Grissom's direction. "I've suspected all along…" he stopped himself after looking to Warrick and Robbins. Several emotions flickered across his furious features before both hands ended up running through his hair and finally resting on his hips. "Dammit, I'm done with this," he said darkly, pushing through the double doors and moving toward the locker room with angry strides.

"Nick?" Warrick asked after him, looking from him to Grissom. "What the hell?"

"My shift is over," Nick kept walking without looking back.

Warrick kept following.

Nick closed the locker room door behind him. He stood there for a long moment, hands on his temples as he cooled down. The locker room was empty as he changed, setting the cell phone on the bench. Staring at it, he slid the napkin from his pocket, picking it up and dialing. He sat, cell to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Neysa. This is Nick Stokes, from the crime lab."

"Of course, Mr. Stokes," her voice was tired, raw.

"What's up, you sound, sick. Hey I didn't wake you up did I?" he pressed the phone to his shoulder as he tied his shoe.

"I just got up, Can't sound beautiful all the time."

He smiled, "I highly doubt that."

"You're making me blush, should I… be getting dressed right now?"

"I'd like to take you up on your offer for breakfast, but…" he stood up and buttoned a loose linen shirt. "Can we make it dinner?"

"This… isn't a good day."

"Is everything okay?"

There was silence on the other end. "Yah, today is fine. I could use the company. What time, we can make dinner here."

"About eight, or is that too late?"

Warrick opened the door a crack, hearing Nick's conversation. He waited, listening.

"Eight is fine," Nick finished.

She gave him directions. He flipped the cell closed.

"A date or a lead?" Warrick asked, leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed.

"None of your damn business," Nick snapped, sliding his cell into its holster.

"What the hell is going on with you man? You've been working two shifts straight, you blow up at Grissom, you're not keeping people in the information loop, and all of a sudden when we need you, you decide to bail and go home?"

"I need some sleep, come back with fresh eyes," he started.

Warrick's mouth opened.

"I **_need_** to go home okay! You told me to take a break! I need to think this through, I need to get some sleep!" he gathered his things and moved toward the door, and Warrick guarding his exit.

"And after the sleep? Apparently getting laid is more important than Lindsey being safe, Sara being almost killed?"

Nick's knuckles turned white, his eyes leveling with Warrick's as they stood nose to nose.

"Because you're my friend 'Rick, I'm gonna forget we even had this conversation," his voice was so quiet it was hard to hear, but laced with so much anger it was chilling. "I can't **_deal_** with you right now man."

"What is going on with you? What did Grissom say that was such a problem?"

Nick didn't answer. Keys crunching in his hand, he brushed past him and walked out to his truck.


	14. Dinner, knives and lies

He parked, pulling a few paper grocery bags out of his truck, walking up to the door. It was a beautiful complex, condos, modern. He pulled at the doorknocker.

It opened; she smiled and scooped up a bag from his arm.

"You have more?" she asked.

He nodded.

"Go grab that and I'll get this unpacked," she moved toward the kitchen with a graceful stride, the full white skirt swishing against bare ankles and the tops of her bare feet. She had blue toenails, the light catching gentle sparkles in the paint and the glint of a gold toe ring.

His eyebrow rose as he turned to get the other bags.

Upon returning, he closed the door behind him, taking a long look around the place. She lived in a studio, all open, the loft bedroom upstairs in complete view of the rest of the lower floor. A few closed doors signaled storage and bathrooms. It was exquisite, artistic. A cello sat on a stand in the corner next to a music stand and a violin case, the wooden floors gleaming from a lamp in the living room underneath rich oriental carpets and eclectic antiques, stacks of books.

His head cocked slightly to the side as he eyeballed an unusual find. An abused soccer ball was rolled under a side table next to a pair of worn cleats.

"This place is amazing," he said, eyes unconsciously moving to an Indian style bedroom covered in hand painted silk drapes, then to her in the stainless steel kitchen. "I didn't peg you as a soccer player."

"Thanks," she said, leaning up from the fridge and pulling several skillets from the overhead rack. "I didn't get my scuffed knees and bruises from my day job."

He laughed slightly. She looked incredible, the simple prairie skirt low on her hips with a decorative chain belt. Her white shirt went to the elbow, the same chain around her neck disappearing below the v-neck. Dark hair was combed straight back, still wet, with no earrings, and no make-up. She didn't need any; a few freckles on her nose dotting otherwise flawless skin caught his attention. He set the bag on the counter, watching her as she turned back to the cupboard. The muscles that moved under her skin were taught, but her arm was tensing when she reached above her head.

"I saw the evening news," she paused, almost seeming unwilling to ask. She chewed on her lower lip, turning and leaning on the counter.

His face darkened as he suddenly felt the need to pull the food from the bag.

"Are you sure you don't have a better place to be?" she asked.

"I need to be here, go back tonight with a fresh perspective."

"Was she as hurt as they said she was?"

"I really can't talk about it," he looked at the stovetop with a confused furl in his brow. It was completely flat like the counter, digital. Leaning back to look at the edge, he pressed a few buttons, licking his thumb to touch the top like a hot iron.

"Sorry…" she nodded gently, biting her lower lip as she reached over and pressed the button. "I like gadgety things. Prefer charcoal and a match?"

His eyebrows flicked up, a smile on his lips. "Thanks"

"I didn't mean to pry, about your… friend," she started.

"She's okay," he finally said. "It never should have happened. It just sucks when things go wrong, things don't go the way you plan."

"They never do," she sighed gently. "I'm glad she's okay. Things, will… get better."

"Is that a promise?" he asked, pulling the things he needed together and prepping the skillets.

"That's a promise," she winked. "You have any more problems and I'll take care of it."

"Sure," he grinned, starting the heat.

She crossed the living room to the stereo mounted on the wall, turning on a radio station softly.

"You play that too?" he asked, flipping something into the skillet.

"I try," she looked at the cello, her fingers resting gently on the scroll. "It's an amazing instrument, you can feel the music vibrate in your chest. Perhaps if your dinner is as good as it looks I'll let you try it."

He grinned slightly. "You might as well get it ready right now, because this… will blow you away."

"You play football?" her toe touched the soccer ball, rolling it out from underneath the side table. "I saw you checking it out. You probably know everything about me by now, isn't that part of your job?"

"I play real football," he started.

She grinned, rolling it back under the table. "Real football with tons of padding and helmets?"

"Hey now."

"I'm just harassing you." She walked back to the kitchen and started to set the table.

His dark eyes watched as she moved, looking, searching for something to give him any hint of what he was looking for. There was nothing unusual, it was as if everything she claimed was true, everyone she claimed to be was real.

Maybe it was; he really liked her.

It was a shame he was about to ruin it. The sadness in his eyes was heavy, but he was more than willing to look like and ass for Sara, for Catherine, for Lindsey. He prayed she would understand, very disappointed she probably wouldn't.

Her forehead crinkled into a scowl as she looked through a couple drawers. He watched her hop up the steps two at a time. She was so graceful, muscles powerful, her feet barely seeming to touch the ground as she moved. She repeated the same routine, coming down the stairs several at a time without pause with a pair of fresh cotton placemats.

Hands on her hips, she surveyed the table.

"Can I help?" she asked.

"Sure, chop these," he tossed a tomato at her.

She caught it, then another as he tossed it, washing them both and sliding a knife from the block. She was careful as she sliced them on the counter, slow and meticulous, fingers incredibly close to the blade.

"You're fearless," he commented.

She only smiled. Scooping them into a bowl, she returned them to him and placed the knife in the dishwasher.

"Are you a wine drinker?" She held up a bottle.

"Absolutely."

"How's your arm?" she asked quietly.

"Better," he looked up.

She was reaching for something, standing on her tiptoes; getting what she was looking for. Opening the bottle, she poured two glasses, swirling them a moment before placing them on the table. She returned to the living room and closed the shades slightly, sitting at the table and making small chitchat.

He finally turned off the stovetop with a beep, dishing up his masterpiece and sitting at the table, placing it in front of her.

They were silent for several moments. He was anxious, nervous on how this night was going to progress. It was going to go all downhill from here, and he was sorry it would.

"This is amazing," she said between bites.

He gave her a half smile, stabbing at his food with flushed cheeks. "My mother was a good teacher."

"A mama's boy huh?"

"No, just taught me how to cook, and how to treat a lady."

"A knight in shining armor then."

"Who likes to barbecue," he smiled. "So… enough about me, tell me about you."

"Not much to tell, I'm a pretty boring person since I came to the states. Fortunately all the excitement happened before I came here."

"Come on…"

"Really, that's all there is to tell. I have a few friends here, but nothing serious. I just… needed some time to find myself again, spend time alone." Her lips pressed tightly together, the fork twirling slightly in her food.

"I'm sorry," he started, he was pressing her; the beginning of the end to this relationship.

"No," she cut him off. "It's okay." She chewed slowly for a moment. "Elina was my life, that's why you made such an impression. She was taken, after school. I had gone to pick her up and she wasn't there. It just reminded me of your boss' daughter is all."

He stopped chewing for a moment, and then swallowed. Those details hadn't been on the news.

She took another forkful. "They never found the man who did it, my ex-husband bankrupted us hiring everyone he could to solve the case. He became a different man, instead of mourning Elina, he mourned the failure of himself as a father to protect her."

"Understandable," he commented.

"But unproductive," she said, taking a last bite. "Nothing existed to him anymore, and every time he looked at me he said I was a reminder of his failure."

Nick watched her face turn bitter. "That's unfair."

"It is." She shrugged slightly. "So, I left. Came here, started over, mourned her in my own way."

He finished his food, drinking the last bit of his wine. She hadn't touched hers, finishing her food. He was up already, cleaning.

"You are such a gentleman," she commented, folding her napkin as she watched him. "You don't need to impress me."

"Not trying to impress," he loaded the dishwasher and cleaned the kitchen.

"Every man tries to impress."

"And every woman secretly wants to be impressed," he smiled, picking up her wine glass. "You're not going to drink this?"

She stood up, taking it from him. "Eventually, I like to enjoy things longer than most women. Your food was fantastic. What heaven did you fall from?" she asked quietly.

"Texas," he smiled.

The heat of her body at this proximity was scorching. Her skin was extremely warm.

She laughed gently. "I'll have to visit there sometime."

"I think you owe me a lesson," he nodded toward the cello.

"Of course," she pursed her lips, setting the wine glass down on the counter and padding into the living room, picking it up off the stand. "Sit."

He followed, sitting down as she set it in front of him, hooking the peg into the loop attached to the front leg of the chair. She leaned it against his chest.

In truth, he had no interest in the thing. It looked complicated and difficult, but the proximity of her to him he couldn't duplicate without being a gentleman.

She leaned it back onto his chest, taking his right hand and setting his fingers on the bow. His eyes were locked on it, lips parting slightly as he watched the back of her hand. A dimple between the tendons caught his attention.

But it was there.

She drew his bowed hand across the strings, the sound vibrating against his chest.

"That's kinda cool," he said quietly.

"Wait…" she started, taking the bow and wrapping her arms around his shoulder to stand behind him. She played something, the cello resting against him.

He took a slow breath, the vibration coupled with the music working a smile from his lips. His hand caught her wrist, carefully setting the bow on the coffee table. She leaned the cello on the floor as he pulled her around in front of him. He tried to look her in the eye, searching for something; she wouldn't meet his eyes.

"Look, Neysa," he started. "I can't do this anymore. I need to ask you something."

She half smiled, "You sound like you're about to break up with me." Her fingers started to pull from his, fingers slipping to linger on his fingertips. He wouldn't let go of them. She looked up to study his face, finally searching his eyes as she sat across from him on the coffee table.

"I understand if after this you… never want to see me again. But, I gotta know…"

"Wait." She raised her hand to stop him. "I have a question."

His face was saddened. This was it.

"Why is it when I look at you, the eyes that look back at me see someone else?" she whispered.

His lips pressed together.

"Because I do," his voice was barely there. "The first day I met you I did."

She chewed her lip, a livid expression stewing under her features. Her fingers pulled from his and she stood and lifted the cello back onto the stand. He got up, hands running through his hair, then resting on his hips.

"This is coming out really badly…" he started.

"And you've spent this entire time doing what?" she cut him off, crossing her arms as she faced him. "Wasting my time?"

"Trying to figure out the truth. Trying to protect the people I care about."

"Your friends."

He nodded slowly. "You remind me of someone I thought I knew, someone who could help us; someone that would never admit who they were because it was part of their job. Now I know…" he let it trail. "I was wrong. I'm sorry I've wasted your time. I'm due into work soon… I think I've overstayed my welcome." He started to leave.

"Maybe you didn't really know this person at all," her voice was eerily quiet.

He looked sheepish, upset. "Believe me, you're unquestionably not her. You're normal, someone I definitely could see myself with for a very long time." His eyes were searching for his car keys. They were not where he'd placed them. "But I've screwed this up."

"Nick," she said quietly. "You don't have to leave…"

"I came here to chase a hunch. I didn't come here to be with you and that I regret." He stopped. "I wanted to be with you. Maybe it could've worked out, if we all weren't looking over our shoulders."

"What you see is what you get," she said. "Maybe you were looking for the wrong person…"

He nodded slowly, eyes on the floor, slowly leading up to her gaze. The back of his mind kept burning. Her eyes wouldn't get out of his head. He'd looked into this gaze before, seen what it was capable of. He couldn't believe this was just a coincidence.

"Were you really married?" he said suddenly, a stern glare down his straight nose.

A hand went to her hip, the other to her forehead as she turned away from him.

She turned back. "No."

His face began to drain of its color. "Was Elina real? Or was that a lie too?"

"Elina was real," her voice slipped to an icy realm. "She was my daughter. The only thing in my life I don't regret."

There were tears on the edge of her eyes, tight in her voice.

"Was Catherine's daughter a coincidence?" he was becoming more suspicious, his face starting to close off as his eyes narrowed. His chest hurt, his heart pounding against his ribcage.

He didn't want to hear the answer.

…because he already knew it.

"No."

Both of his hands went to her cheeks with a snap, thumbs on her temples as he pulled her face to him and stared at her.

She took a sharp breath, it'd caught her off guard.

"Kara?" his face flickered between disbelief and relief, searching her eyes.

Her expression suddenly was stripped of everything but the sorrow that had settled in her eyes over Elina. She didn't confirm or deny his realization.

"Tell me who you are!" he demanded.

She gripped his wrists tightly.

"I'm exactly who you see."

"Is this world another lie? Another game?" he demanded.

She tried to shake her head, the heels of his hands pressing against her cheeks.

"No."

"What are you doing here? They told me you died!"

"I'm keeping my promise."

"To who!"

"Grissom."

"Grissom?"

His nostrils flared, lids hooded, a dozen expressions flashing over his face.

"You have to stay here tonight," her voice was gentle as she leaned forward. His palms slipped off her cheeks as she kissed him gently on the lips. "Please stay here tonight."

He was surprised, but took her lead, pulling her in for another. Her cheek leaned against his as she whispered in his ear.

"You're all safe tonight… stay with me."

He pulled her in again, chest shuddering as she opened her mouth to him, already working the buttons on her shirt to cross the point of no return.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Warrick's nostrils flared slightly as they walked toward interrogation. "Are you wearing aftershave?"

Grissom blinked slowly, eyes sliding to the side. "I don't wear that stuff when I work."

"You weren't working, you were with Sara," Warrick's eyes narrowed, not pushing the subject. "Things have been too quiet, you think this Derrick is our guy?"

"We'll find out soon."

"Good luck in there, I have a few things to check out, I'll join you in a bit," Warrick pressed his lips together and walked toward the lab.

Grissom nodded, watching him walk away. He lifted his collar gently to take a sniff, making a face as he walked into interrogation, sitting down and flipping open a folder.

"Who was Derrick Simmons?"

Regina sat across the table, her arms crossed, looking bored. Brass was already in the room, mimicking her posture with a sly smirk.

She shrugged. "You're the detectives, you figure it out."

"Brass is the detective, I'm a forensic scientist."

Brass glared at him slightly for the distinction, but he turned his irritation onto Regina.

"Look, cut the crap. You want to get out of jail in less than a life sentence? Help us out here," Brass insisted.

"I'll take the life sentence," she stared at the table.

"Who could scare you enough to do whatever they wanted you to. Derrick was a low rent drug dealer with an arms record," Grissom thought out loud. "He doesn't seem like someone that could get whatever they wanted out of you. Could he inspire enough loyalty to keep your silence, even when threatened with jail?"

Her eyes flicked to him, the glare heated, but scared at the very core.

"Derrick's sitting in the morgue on a slab," Brass said.

Her eyes faltered, flicking back to the table.

"Your sister was killed, your friends. Last night Jeremy, Victor and Derrick were murdered with Bobby's gun. Are you next?" Grissom asked.

"Maybe you are," she spat under her breath.

"We have a problem," Warrick stepped into the room. "I need to see you, right now."

Grissom looked up, closing the folder and stepping out into the hall.

"Nick's late," Warrick started. "We had a fight in the locker room. He told me he couldn't deal with me and he had to get some sleep. I've called his cell, I've called his house. He's over an hour late."

"Did he say anything to you before he left?"

"He was talking to someone on the phone, he talked about meeting her."

"Her?" Grissom asked as he flipped open his phone and dialed. No answer. He paged. No answer.

"Neysa, a girl he met about a week ago…"

Grissom held up his hand to stop him talking, eyes on a television through the glass in another room. "Is that Nick's place?"

Warrick's eyes squinted to see the news bulletin, fire department already on the scene.

The clicking of Catherine's heels was sharp as she turned the corner. "I had an officer case Nick's house to check for his truck, he called it in to the fire department. Nick's place is on fire."

"Shit," Warrick started, panicked look on his features. "We need to get out there."

Grissom grabbed his arm as his phone went off. It was Nick's number.

"Hello?" Grissom asked tentatively, locking eyes with Warrick.

"It's a trap." The female voice paused several moments. "Stay at the lab."

"Who is this?" he asked, looking to Catherine and Warrick.

The call ended with a beep, Grissom's eyes traveling back to the TV.


	15. Homegrown Backstabber

The room was deathly quiet, dark save for the eerie green glow of an open cell phone. Several sirens began to wail in the distance, and then faded to nothing. She lay listening to his steady breathing, the heat of his hand on her hip somewhat comforting in the fray of raw nerves that seemed to tremble under her skin. The air conditioning had made the damp sheets cold; even though Nick's skin felt like a blast furnace next to hers. She shivered involuntarily, both their skin still glinting with a sheen of perspiration.

His breath had leveled to a calm silence, his aided sleep wouldn't allow him to wake for at least twelve hours. The nightmarish world she had been moving within finally seemed to settle to a void standstill. Everything was finally calm and in control. The cell phone flipped closed in her fingers as she placed it on the nightstand, sliding his car keys from under the mattress and setting them next to the phone. Fingertips rubbed together softly, absently slid across a snarl of feathered flesh on her chest that withstood even the best attempts at skin resurfacing.

Death, and pain and loyalty.

It had come to this.

Lowered lids turned to look at him as he slept quietly. She would do anything to keep him safe. To keep all of them safe.

Her feet slid off the bed and pressed into the thick rug under the bed, joints cracking slightly as she stood up, the sheet pulling from her cool skin. Walking around slowly to the other side, she knelt, pulling his gun from the holster in the pile of clothes. Checking the clip, she slid the safety off, putting it on the table on his side of the bed next to his empty wine glass.

Fingertips trembled as they gently touched the angry red cut still blistering on his eyebrow. He would have a scar.

Noble.

Sensitive fingers ran slowly down his straight nose, stopping to slide the back of her hand tenderly over his jaw. The reluctant hero. Her palm rested on his chest, feeling the movement of his heartbeat for a long time, finally sliding to sit silently on the floor, leaning on the bed as she drew her knees to her chest.

Her chest hurt, heart palpitating.

She felt dirty, quivering fingernails sliding along her arms. She could feel them there under her skin. Scars upon scars upon scars buffed and scoured and peeled off in a last ditch attempt to become invisible.

Why.

Staring blearily at her hands, she closed her eyes tightly and stood, padding to the large ornate bathroom.

The shower water was scalding, water sliding down her cheeks like tears. Scars. She couldn't seem to get them off. She couldn't see them, but they were still there. Her sobbing was uncontrollable, huddled in a tight ball in the vastness of the ornate tile shower. Her lips moved over and over in unconscious words. Arms pulled knees tightly to her chest, body pressed into a corner as the scalding water swirled, burned, the pain seeming to cleanse her soul of the wicked ruse. She felt bare, exposed.

Alone.

And responsible.

It was almost over.

One way or another, it was ending here.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Grissom stared intently at a table full of evidence, blinking every so often.

"There are no coincidences," he said under his breath, lost in thought. Chewing lightly on his glasses, he kept moving things around gently on the table like a puzzle, the glow of the lit tabletop barely glittering his narrowed eyes.

"I don't understand why we're not going out to Nick's place," Catherine's voice was demanding as she leaned in the doorway. "We should be the first people on that scene, Gil."

He held up his hand to shush her. "You're supposed to be at home with an officer."

"You expect me to stay at home? Nick's missing, Sara's in the hospital and someone torched his place."

"Nick is not missing. Lindsey?"

"In the sheriff's office being impatient with an officer. I can't believe you," she sounded exasperated, her arms shrugging before her hands slapped on her thighs. "Did you hear what I said? Nick's missing and someone torched his place."

"How's that doing?" he said absently, moving the college textbook on the table to the side, discarding it from his thought process.

"They put it out before it took out the whole place. Garage is pretty much toast. Nick's not there, his truck's gone," she took a long pause. "But you already knew that didn't you..."

He was silent, eyes traveling over the evidence. "Nick's fine."

"Just like you to leave us out of the loop, Sherlock Holmes." She crossed her arms tightly.

His face seemed to stop a moment, her comment reference striking a chord before his attention went back to the table. "He's blowing off some steam after an argument with Warrick. He doesn't want to be bothered."

"And you know this because?" she quipped as she sat on a stool across from him. "And now his garage is ash. Don't you think he would want to know that? Doesn't this seem like a bit of a coincidence to you? Why aren't we asking Brass to put every officer in Vegas on this case?"

He was silent, eyes moving from piece to piece to piece. "None of this is relevant, this is a closed case." his voice spoke only to himself, barely audible as he commented on the evidence. "It's a ruse."

"I'm going over your head," she got up and began to move out the door. "I'm going to Ecklie."

"Catherine," Grissom's face was suddenly sternly attentive.

"What!" she demanded, turning back into the doorway.

Grissom pursed his lips.

"I'm so frustrated with this! This is an attack on us, all of us," she breathed. "Are you willing to stake his **_life_** on a hunch that Nick is okay? You've got two of his best friends in the other room processing everything again, giving them no other reason than you asked them to. They're worried sick. I can't leave without a police escort, Sara's in the hospital. This is too big for us Gil! We've got to ask Ecklie to get us some help."

"No."

"No?" There was stress in her voice, eyes disbelieving.

"No. We need to keep this in house. The more hands in the kitchen, the bigger the mess. No one else."

"Why?"

"Because you have to trust me."

"And why is that?" she stood. She was pissed, hands on her hips. Fingers ran through her hair, a hand resting on her forehead. "If you know something we don't, I'm all ears but don't ask us to stand idly by while you become a one man army."

He tapped his fingertips on the layout table, eyes hooded in shadow.

"Grissom, I'm talking to you!"

"Catherine, please. I'm trying to figure this out," he started.

"So am I, if you can't trust us enough to let us in then we're all screwed. I know this is all connected, but we're at the worst place we can be. A dead end," her voice was low, almost disgusted. "I think we need to acknowledge that this is beyond us. It's time to bring in the big guns. I don't want my daughter to have a bodyguard for the rest of her damn life like my damn father." Her face softened. "And Nick,"

"Nick is fine," he looked up, seeing the worry behind her eyes. Moving what remained of the infrared camera right in front of him, he urged her help. "Walk through this with me."

She sighed, hands on her hips again as she stepped in. "Fine."

Warrick leaned in the doorway behind her. "I've been over everything again like you asked. No changes. Nothing out of the ordinary." He looked at Catherine. "Grissom, we didn't miss anything."

"That's what I was hoping," Grissom nodded. "Three boys are murdered at a cemetery, by three assailants and a… pooch. A fourth girl, Regina, escapes. One of the gunmen then kills Regina's sister and frames her for the cemetery murders. Regina kidnaps Lindsey. Lindsey is returned with a present for the lab, intended for Catherine. Bobby is killed. Sara is nearly killed after walking into residual kickback from the original murder." He looked up. "This is a closed circle."

Catherine sighed deeply. "Bobby offers to kill an ex-boyfriend and her sister in exchange for getting back at me for putting him in jail."

He nodded. "This evidence is straight forward. There is nothing else to suggest otherwise. Regina will stand trial for her crimes. I'm closing the case."

"And the loose ends?" Warrick asked, thumb tapping against his lower lip as his crossed his arms.

"Bobby and his friends' murder," Grissom leaned back, sliding his glasses back on.

"Derrick is responsible for that," Warrick said. He ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek as he thought.

"Then why are we still looking over this table full of evidence?" Catherine asked curtly.

"Call me crazy, but I don't think this has anything to do with Regina, with any of them," Warrick said absently as he stared at the table.

Grissom's smile was sly. "But yet everything to do with her. The evidence doesn't lie. It points to Regina."

Catherine looked across the evidence on the table. "Regina is a smokescreen?"

"A girl with no record is an accessory to murder, a kidnapper and attempted murder. Derrick was going to string her along until Regina took the fall," Warrick said.

Catherine's face was grim. "And now Derrick is dead. We're working up a food chain."

"But so is the bad guy." Warrick looked at the infrared camera. "By doing our jobs, and playing this guy's game, we're putting ourselves out in the open so he can pick us off one at a time." He set it down, leaning on the table with both hands, lowering his head slightly as he thought to himself. "We keep sticking our hands out to catch this guy, and we keep getting them slapped.

"How long until someone gets theirs chopped off? So who pissed this guy off?" Catherine demanded. "I've paid my dues already on this one."

"He, or she, is setting a precedent. It's a threat," he pursed his lips.

"Being?" Grissom questioned.

"If we do our jobs, we're in danger." He was pissed as he pushed off the table. "And this shit is all over the news, now every two bit criminal in this city knows who really sends these guys to prison and is giving them permission to take pot shots at us."

"Agreed," "Grissom set, his elbows on the table as he interlaced his fingers. "I don't think that's the original intent, but it's definitely now a threat as well."

Greg stopped tentatively in the doorway. "Grissom, I'm really sorry."

Grissom's eyes darkened, reaching for his pager as he watched several suited men move down the hall toward Ecklie's office.

"What did you do Greg?"

He wouldn't look him in the eye. His pager went off again, it was Ecklie.

"I was worried about Nick."

"Dammit Greg!" he snapped, getting up and moving toward Ecklie's office.

Everyone was silent as he passed, eyes from the labs on him as well. He stepped into the office, a smile cordially on his features over a face otherwise angry to the nines.

"Close the door Gil."

Grissom looked carefully at the two men in the room. One stood behind Ecklie at his right, the other sat in a chair. He pushed the door closed quietly.

"Have a seat," he sounded annoyed. "This is Agent Shields and Agent Lafave."

"Gentlemen," Grissom nodded as he sat, the tips of his fingers resting against his temple.

"Could you brief me please on the Dalton case."

Grissom looked from person to person. "Regina Dalton posed as her sister, Rebecca in order to murder a former boyfriend and sister in order to assume her identity. She then aided her boyfriend, Bobby Cross in kidnapping and attempting to murder the daughter of one of our CSI's, including the CSI. We believe Bobby's brother, Derrick, was then responsible for killing those involved, and was eventually killed himself in the scuffle."

"And your CSI? Sara Sidle?" LaFave asked, looking up from a folder.

"Sara Sidle was injured as she returned to the scene of the original murder to collect additional evidence she discovered after examining video evidence from the scene. We have recovered and processed enough evidence to make and arrest, and the DA has taken the case. I've decided after speaking with my team to close the case."

"And the CSI, Nick Stokes?"

"Nick Stokes is fine. He needed time off, I'm giving it to him."

"According to another of your CSI's, Greg Sanders, he has been missing for several hours and his home has been the scene of a suspected arson." LaFave commented again.

"Excuse me, but can I ask what this is about?" Grissom's voice had a lick of sarcasm. "It isn't often federal employees are sitting in our humble lab."

"Aren't you concerned about Nick?" Ecklie asked, his hands folded on his desk.

"Of course."

The suits seemed to look at each other slightly. "Mr. Grissom, we have reason to believe you've had contact with someone on a list of some concern."

"And here I thought you were genuinely concerned about Nick"

"Gil, this is serious."

"I investigate crimes. I highly doubt I have anything that these gentlemen are interested in," he began to get up.

"Tell me about Kara DeMonte," LaFave asked.

Grissom's eyes slid slowly to him as he settled back in his seat. LaFave's jaw was smooth, young, freshly shaven, and suit pristine. But, his eyes were intently keen even though his relaxed stance. Grissom sighed, this was getting out of hand very quickly. He knew what he'd seen, he knew what Sara had told him. The question was… did they know? Had they talked to Sara? He didn't want to tip his hand before it was appropriate.

"I know you had a cozy conversation with her before she was removed from our custody," Ecklie started.

"And what does this have to do with me now?"

"We have reason to believe she's contacted you," Lafave commented.

"Kara DeMonte is dead," Grissom stated. "Didn't we cover this last year?"

"Yes we did." Ecklie steeped his fingers and leaned back in the chair, looking to the two feds.

LaFave pressed his lips together as he half sat on Ecklie's desk. It elicited a sideways frown from him.

"And again I ask, why am I here?" Grissom asked, the same blank innocence on his features.

"The agent was decommissioned," Lafave started.

"Ships are decommissioned," he said objectionably. Grissom's brows rose. "So she survived the shooting?" He was willing to play this game to see where it led.

"Officially, no," LaFave started.

Grissom set his jaw, crossing his legs at the knee and folding his fingers together. "So she was **_'decommissioned'_** after she officially died in the altercation with a man which, by the discussion we are having, has eluded your capture."

Shields smiled slightly, finding a spot on the carpet very interesting as he listened. LaFave looked taken aback.

"So why are you chasing her?" Grissom's voice was saturated with dark sarcasm.

LaFave blinked. "I…"

"You mentioned that she was decommissioned and you believe she has contacted me, which means you don't know where she is. Your concern with my people, and a potential arson that hasn't even cooled yet, leads me to believe that the man responsible for almost killing one of my CSI's is again a problem."

Shields cleared his throat. The older gentleman rubbed at the graying goatee on his chin. "Truth be told Mr. Grissom, you are correct. We are looking for your help in apprehending our target."

"Your **_'target'_**…?" he articulated carefully, taking off his glasses.

"The former agent."

Grissom looked stricken. "Let me get this straight, you have a killer that you believe is again threatening my team and you are worried about the one person that can protect them? Who has protected them in the past?"

"Is that what she told you?" LaFave asked quickly.

Grissom looked annoyed, a sinister stare through his eyebrows. "Let me tell you what I know. I know that when my people were in danger, she was the only one that look a step forward and put her life on the line to keep them safe. I didn't see any of you at that scene."

"Was that before or after Nick was disobeying protocol and working alone at the DeMonte house when he was kidnapped, after he had been suspended?" Ecklie quipped. "You see Gil, there is protocol for a reason. We can't protect your team if your team is not following procedure!"

Grissom was angry.

"Let me tell you what **_I_** know," Lafave started.

Grissom licked his lips, putting his glasses back on and folding his hands.

"'Kara DeMonte', is not one of our own. She was hired to do a specific job, for a specific reason. She failed to do that to our specifications, and was for all purposes 'sent packing'."

"Did you ever finish this 'specific job'?" Grissom asked. "Would it possibly be finding this guy that seems to be now after my team again?"

"That is irrelevant. What is relevant is your cooperation in contacting us if this woman attempts to contact you."

Grissom breathed deeply, looking to Ecklie, then back to the two suits. "Can I ask you a question?" he spoke to Shields.

He merely blinked in return, waiting expectantly.

"It seems that the incompetence comes full circle. How could you loose your **_'target'_**, this **_'decommissioned'_** killer?"

Shields pursed his lips, a bare expression down his nose as he sat back in his chair. There would be no response.

Grissom watched his reaction carefully. This man was formidable. LaFave was young, inexperienced, but sharp. Shields, thought deeper than what most people could perceive. He looked up at Grissom's comment to Ecklie, then LaFave, finally back to Grissom.

Grissom thought out loud, "**_He sits motionless, like a spider in the center of his web, but that web has a thousand radiations, and he knows well every quiver of each of them._**"

Ecklie raised an eyebrow, rolling his eyes slightly.

"Exactly," Shields answered finally. "Arthur Conan Doyle?"

Grissom smiled slightly, nodding.

"Comparable observation," Shields commented.

"Am I the only one that's lost here?" Ecklie was annoyed.

Grissom quirked a half smile. "I'm going back to my team, we have a job to finish."

Ecklie nodded, face aggravated as Grissom closed the door behind him and moved back down the hall toward the layout room.

"Follow him," Ecklie started. "You have my full cooperation. He has a habit of covering for his people, and that makes him suspect in my eyes. I can't prove it, but perhaps with your help we can kill two birds with one stone."


	16. Coming Clean

Warrick signed in, nodding to the officer as he keyed the gate and let him in. Warrick's walk had a distinct swagger of apprehension; he'd not wanted to do this. The girl was damn guilty; but Grissom had asked him to talk to her again, insisted there was more to the story that she wasn't divulging, and he'd obliged. His light eyes watched the uniform carefully as he was led to the holding cell, he didn't recognize the officer. He didn't recognize a lot of people lately since the little brat blew up the lobby, there were so many more cops around.

He pulled up a folding chair, turning it around backwards and sitting down.

A frail looking girl looked miserable, the bravado she'd tossed around over the last several days completely dissolved away.

"Hello Ms. Dalton," he said simply. "My name is Warrick Brown, I'm with the crime lab. Mr. Grissom asked me to come down and ask you a few questions."

Regina sniffled. She looked pale; the circles under her eyes making her look much older than she was. The orange jumper was enormous on her tiny frame, shoulders hunched as she pulled her knees to her chest and turned away from him. Her forehead leaned on her knees with a thump.

He sighed gently, the ceiling much more interesting to him. This was a waste of time. She wasn't going to talk.

"Why do you guys keep bugging me?" she said into her arms. Her voice was exceptionally lucid, raw.

"I'm asking myself that question right now," he paused. "But there are people around here that still think you can do the right thing and help us out."

She huffed, looking up at him. There were tears at the rims of her eyes. "Even if I did, it wouldn't matter. I'm dead anyway."

"Who threatened to kill you?" he asked as kindly as he could, her reluctance to talk a bit more palatable. He smoothed the collar on his white linen shirt, resting his arms on the back of the chair in front of him.

She shook her head, sniffling as a pregnant tear rolled swiftly down her cheek and over her lips. Huddling further into the corner, she closed off. Chipped black polished fingernails clutched her arms as she sobbed silently in the corner.

"I didn't mean for anyone to get hurt," she lamented.

Warrick's eyes narrowed. In his eyes, this girl was responsible for an entire covered-up crime spree. A sharp comeback was poised to quip off the end of his tongue, but he resisted.

"What do you mean?"

The heels of her hands ran over her eyes as she turned her head to glance at him. "I only wanted to get her out of the way, make Chris pay for cheating on me with her. I didn't know Bobby was going to kill all those people."

"It's amazing how quickly things can get out of hand," he licked his lips, hearing the clicking of high heels and snap of a tailored skirt from down the hall.

"I'm formally filing a complaint with your supervisor," the voice was bitter. "Any questioning of my client requires me to be present. Regina, say nothing."

Regina looked up at her lawyer, wiping her nose. The woman's face twisted in anger as she started in on Warrick again.

"Shut up," Regina looked at her lawyer, her legs slowly sliding from the bench, toes barely touching the floor as she seemed to unfold herself from her defensive position. "If I'm going out, I'm going out with a good conscience… I can't sit here anymore waiting to die."

"I'm advising you not to speak," she said again.

Regina gave her an annoyed expression, sniffling again as she wiped her eyes. "Bobby and I dated. We were drunk one night, just being stupid… then it turned into this big plan…" she stared at the floor.

Empathy suddenly spilled from behind Warrick's eyes, his face concerned. He knew he shouldn't feel compassion for this girl, but he did. Perhaps, she really didn't know what she had gotten into.

"He was angry with this lady that tossed him in jail and wanted to get back at her, I wanted my sister out of the way and to screw over my ex-boyfriend… it just got out of control."

"So what you're saying is that you never put your hands on any weapon?"

She nodded furiously, looking truly pitiable as another flood of tears poured down her cheeks. "I didn't know he was going to kill anybody! He just wanted me to kidnap the brat, make her mom sweat, then return her. After he killed…" she paused, trying to calm herself. "After he killed my friends at the cemetery, I freaked out… he told me if I didn't help him kidnap the girl and keep quiet, he was going to turn me in."

"Why do you think he killed your friends?"

Her eyes looked crushed, the naked honesty brutal. "I don't know."

His brow quirked darkly, he believed her. "The bruises on your neck, did Bobby put them there?"

"No…" pale terror spilled over her features, a tear quivering on her upper lip as her breath seemed to halt in her chest. "This guy…"

"Another of Bobby's friends?"

Her head shook quickly. "An old guy…" she began to chew her lip, her nails replacing it as she began to shred them to the quick. Eyes were flitting up and down the halls. "He was different…"

Warrick started to press. She was shaking, terrified.

"He told me…"

Warrick leaned forward slightly. Suddenly an officer at the end of the cells slammed a door. Regina jumped with a mortified squeal, pressing herself into the corner on the bench and sobbing uncontrollably, fingers clawing at the wall.

He looked at her lawyer.

"There's a deal to be made," she said. "Five years, minimum security for a full confession, witness protection before and after her trial."

"Noted," Warrick said, looking back to Regina in the cell as he flipped open his cell and called Brass. "Look at her, she's petrified," he commented to the lawyer under his breath.

Regina calmed herself, the sobs still heavy. "He wanted me to kill someone… that he would get me out of trouble if I did."

Warrick flipped the phone closed. Her lawyer looked at him.

Regina's face scrunched as she tried to remember a name.

"Bobby?" Warrick asked. "Bobby asked you to kill someone?"

She shook her head, breaths shaky and violent the sobs crashed over her like waves. "Bobby insisted I kidnap the kid… this other guy, older guy… told me that he could keep me out of trouble if I killed a cop for him. He said if I told anybody he'd kill me, and anyone I ratted to."

"Which cop?"

"I can't… remember…" she was biting her nails again.

"Try."

She sucked in huge breaths between the sobbing chokes, "he was on the news."

Warrick shook his head with a dark look, then stood. "Thank you Regina, you did the right thing." He started to walk toward the main door.

"Mr. Brown," her voice was barely audible, suddenly quiet.

His fingers rested on the bars.

"He… told me he could kill me anywhere, anytime…" she drew an incredibly slow, trembling breath. "I believe him…"

Warrick's face looked grim as he nodded and walked to the main door. Brass stepped in as he signed out. "Get this girl a deal," he said quietly. "We got a problem. She just copped to being asked to kill one of us… I think it might be Nick."

Brass squared his jaw, then nodded. "You got another problem," he started. "The feds want to talk to you."

Warrick frowned. "About what?"

Brass made a face, "Three guesses and if they aren't Grissom, they don't count."

"Dammit," Warrick flipped his phone open again. "Yah, Grissom. Regina just copped to being threatened if she didn't carry out the kidnapping and bomb… I don't think she knew about the bomb, her sloppiness with hiding the evidence in her dorm makes me want to believe her."

Brass sighed tightly.

"She claims to have been told to kill one of us in exchange for this guy getting her out of trouble. I think it might be Nick." His glance settled on two men in suits moving down the hall toward him. "Hey, I gotta go," he flipped his cell closed.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Nick's eyes slid open. His body felt like lead, sore. It was as if he hadn't moved since he'd fallen asleep. Eyes pressed together over and over as he desperately tried to clear them, reaching to slide his fingers across the empty place next to him. A disappointed expression turned to the vacant pillow.

Rolling slowly onto his back, he ran his hands over his face, a wave of dizziness washing over his brain.

"Damn…" he exhaled.

Everything came back with furying speed. Drawing a long breath, he surveyed his surroundings in the light. Car keys and phone sat on the nightstand on the far side. His gun sat on the nightstand next to him.

He frowned.

Fingers groped to pick it up, freezing when he realized the safety was off.

His phone suddenly jumped to life, elbows pressing him up to reach it.

"Yah…"

"Nick!"

"Yah…"

"I've called you a dozen times, where are you?" Grissom's voice was demanding.

He lay back, his head smacking the headboard as he winced. "I dunno… what time is it?" he squinted as ran his hand over his face again, the room was spinning. "Wait…"

"Are you with Neysa?"

"I'm at her place…" his voice was halting, unfocused, eyes resting on the empty wine glass on the nightstand. It all began to pull together as he pulled his legs over the side of the bed and tried to stand.

"I feel really funny, Gris…"

"She probably drugged you, look I don't have a lot of time to chit chat," he began.

"What?" he pinched the bridge between his nose. "What time is it?" he gathered the sheet around his waist and stood up slowly.

"Almost nine pm."

"What? I've been asleep for sixteen hours? What the hell is going on?"

"You said Neysa is not with you?"

"Grissom… it's Kara…"

"I know."

Nick sat back down again, a distinct scowl on his face as he leaned on his knees. Grissom always knew first.

"Tell me exactly what you see," Grissom asked.

Nick pulled in a slow breath as he strained to see beyond the dim room. "I'm at her place. I cooked her dinner, she must have stuck something in the food… the wine…"

"What else?"

He squinted. "My car keys and phone were on her nightstand. My gun was on mine, the safety off."

"Nightstand?" he was unusually quiet.

Nick rested his hand on his forehead. "Look, I'm really sorry Grissom… it just happened."

"I'm not chiding you Nick," he started. "I'm glad you're safe. Is she still there?"

"I dunno, I'm not exactly stable on my feet right now."

"Can you look please?"

He nodded particularly to himself, holding the sheet as he stood. His first couple steps were halting, but moved smoother as he looked around the top floor, scanning the lower floor.

"She's not here."

"She wanted you to be stationary there for a reason. Your place was torched last night. You said she left your gun with the safety off on your nightstand?"

"Yah," his fingers ran through his cropped hair. "My house was torched?"

"Just the garage. Stay there. Stay on guard, don't leave until her or I come get you."

"What do I do in the meantime?"

"Stay alive, and don't open the door!" he ended the call.

He flipped the phone closed and set it on the nightstand again, picking up his clothes, eyeing his gun. Picking that up as well he moved toward the bathroom.

Water coursed over his face, a distinct fog still hammering at the back of his skull. The gun was within his eyesight on the back of the toilet the entire time. Barely able to stand up, he leaned his fingers on the front of the shower, forehead following suit. This couldn't be happening. He felt if he closed his eyes, he would fall asleep again.

"C'mon Nick… you have to stay awake…" he said to himself, reaching to turn the hot water off. Cold spray felt like hammered icicles on his skin, he winced.

Was this all a giant mistake? Had he disappointed Grissom? He set his jaw. There was nothing he would have done differently if given another chance.

Sharp, unexpected banging on the front door pierced the silent reflection. His heart lurched into his throat, water dripping from his eyelashes as he caught his breath. Leaving the water running, he climbed out, pulling on his clothes with struggling jerks and grabbing the gun.

His gun came out on point immediately as he stepped carefully down the stairs, muscles shaking slightly from the sudden surge of adrenaline. Water slid down his cheeks from his hair, a hand coming up quickly to wipe it from his eyes. His aim rose, straight down his arm in a two handed grip at the door.

The door kept jumping, and then suddenly splintered as a man burst through, followed by several others that peeled out and took positions, their guns all snapping to attention at his forhead.

"Down! Now!"


	17. Who stalks the Boogie Man?

The darkness beyond him was oppressive, exit signs shining a thin glow around the doors. Fans whirred unobtrusively, a faint wisp on his skin. He was hesitant to break the silence with words, the feel of intense eyes heavy on his skin as the sliver of light from the lobby behind him disappeared slowly across the floor. A heavy wooden entry clicked shut as Grissom finally let go of the panic bar, delving him into complete and vast darkness

The soft tinkle of beads rose over the whir of air after several moments. Prime acoustics in the vast hall played their tricks, making it impossible to discern where it was coming from. It was methodical, spaced evenly from clicking to clicking. He began to count how long between each time he heard the noise; it suddenly became clear what she was doing.

"I didn't peg you as the religious type." Grissom started, clasping his hands tenderly together, resisting the urge to pull out his penlight to find her. His soft voice sounded like gunfire against the heavy and numb silence.

Beads tinkled in her fingers, moving as they were rolled between each thumb and forefinger, moving onto the next one. Calm stillness answered his implied question.

He was enjoying the obscurity; it was soothing. "I knew you would be here… we need to talk, now… before anyone else get hurt."

"No one else will, unless your feds get in the way."

"I can't help what they're doing." He stayed where he was, almost afraid if he moved she would take off like a deer into oblivion.

"No one usually can," she seemed amused. "An opportunity to stake the competition? They're like kids in a candy store."

"Competition?" His eyes started to search through the dark to find her. "I thought you killed Bobby and Derrick?"

He heard a slight exhale as she smirked, then went silently back to her rosary.

"They were already dead," she said as her voice slipped lower than he could hear, she kept speaking, over and over. Finishing her decade, she clutched it into her hand as she drew a long breath. "Why do you chase evidence?" she asked finally.

He'd been listening to her voice echo off the stage, turning his head to the right and looking into what he knew lay beyond in the darkness, an immeasurable ocean of seats. "Why do you create it?" he answered.

A breath seized through her nose as she smiled.

He smiled slightly, genuinely intrigued. She was complex, mysterious, and capable of emerging from and disappearing into darkness. She was a master at her craft. But, she had to be.

Because she was a killer.

Her charisma made him overlook that very distinct fact, if only for a moment.

Squinting, eyes adjusting to the shadows, he could barely make her out. She was sitting in the center of the main floor, just underneath the lip of the balcony; the best seat in the house. Turning toward her, he started to approach at a snail's pace.

"We're both after the same thing," she said finally.

She was making no attempt to move, no attempt to stay hidden. That made him cautious.

"And that would be?" He tried to make out anything else in the room.

The room was intensely calm. The seat creaked as she shifted. He paused, not wanting to scare her off, then realized she'd done it on purpose.

"I'm not going anywhere Mr. Grissom," she crossed her ankles. "Justice," she said. "We both want justice."

"I want justice for the victims."

"So do I." Her face turned to look at him.

It was almost as if he could feel the heat of her eyes thrumming fiery needles on his skin. She'd looked at Nick this way; he immediately understood why Nick couldn't walk away. There was something beneath it, something a reluctant hero couldn't help but see.

"Are you sure you're not interpreting who deserves the most justice?" he asked.

"Not all victims are dead ones."

"Are you saying you're a victim?" he inquired.

Her words were articulate; "I can pull a trigger in a man's temple and never think about it again." She was looking at him once more, a heavy stare. "That doesn't mean I can't be taken advantage of."

"How can you live with that?" his voice was astounded.

"Killing someone? Or the fact that you're so good at what you do they'll bring you back from the dead… because you're their property, regardless of what they've told you." She licked her lips, shifting again as she sighed. "Feds are assholes, putting their noses where they're not wanted."

"You wanted to die?"

Calm.

"I wanted what every woman wants."

He blinked slowly; her voice was almost gentle, forlorn.

"To be wanted," he added. "And to be needed." He let it rest for a moment. "Did you come back from the dead for them… or for us?" He was quirkily curious.

Her brow twitched. "I don't kill people. I kill killers," her words were articulate, abruptly changing the subject to answer his previous question. She sounded angry.

"That sounds like a logical rationalization," he followed her lead. "You reduce your victims' value, therefore to you it has no sense of repulsiveness, the act of death is purely business."

"I could say the same of you, except you reduce them to molecules and DNA."

His head tilted slightly to one side. "Were Derrick, Bobby… killers?"

She shifted again. "Yes."

"That doesn't mean they deserved to die."

"But it doesn't mean they deserved to live," she quipped. "Would you have been satisfied to allow Nick to die in their place? Lindsey? Catherine? Yourself?"

He sat on the end of her row, hands folded as he faced the front of the hall.

The silence was long, strained.

"I'm not going to rationalize my life to you," she said, voice raw. "We make choices. I chose to protect you, even if I had to pay a price for it. I do a job that is necessary, even if you don't agree with it."

"But Derrick and Bobby deserve justice nonetheless. They don't have anyone to speak for them."

"Of course they do," she started. "They have you."

"I can't bring Bobby and Derrick justice because you don't exist," he settled into the chair, his arm over the back as he crossed his legs at the knee. "Even if you did come back fro the dead. What I have to say then, is pointless."

"Do you believe the same way when a case goes unsolved? You couldn't pass judgment on the guilty."

"I don't pass judgment, I offer facts," he answered.

"Are you sure?"

The stillness from her was frightening. In the back of his mind he knew if she wanted to, he would never hear her coming until it was too late. It made him eternally grateful she was on his side.

"It's not fair is it…" her voice sounded, different. "But that's the way it is." Melancholy. Regretful. "I disgust you," she said.

This time it was his turn to be thoughtful.

"You fascinate me," he leaned his temple on the tips of his fingers.

"Why?"

"Because you have erased your existence for something you believe to be just. I cannot decide if that's sacrifice, or madness."

She frowned deeply. "Or need."

"Or obsession?"

She didn't answer.

"This man, is he behind this mess? Is he the one trying to kill my people?"

The seconds felt like minutes to him. He wanted the answer, and he wanted it then. No obscurity, no games, no half-truths.

She nodded slowly.

He heard it, the rusting of her chin against her collar.

"It's good to know there's someone out there in the darkness keeping track of the boogie man…" her voice was chilling. "…isn't it…"

"Then what's his motive?" he asked.

Again the silent whir of the fans high above the catwalks punctuated their frank conversation. The frequently one-sided tête-à-tête was giving him more information than he was asking. Things she refused to answer or redirected to him were starting to fit together.

"He killed your father didn't he…" it was more of a statement than a question. "This is… personal."

"Yes," her voice was cold, completely void of any emotion. "But I'm also fulfilling a promise to you."

The whir of the fans stopped as the system shut down for the night. She was once again rolling the beads of the rosary through her fingers, lips moving silently to herself.

"Who is Derrick?" he asked lightly.

She stopped, sighing heavily. "His son."

"You tortured his son," he sounded… plain, frank. "Why would you do that?"

"They're killers," she was hushed, eyes closed, fingers moving along her waistband to tuck her rosary away and slide toward something more sinister.

"Then what are you?"

The pause was painful.

"Empty."

Her eyes suddenly opened, the snap of her motion noiseless as she stood and aimed, the pistol pulled from nothingness.

A bright flashlight suddenly illuminated her form, and the muzzle of a pistol pointed back at her.

Shields' forehead flinched slightly, not expecting the counter.

"Mr. Grissom, you must become more aware of your surroundings," she said matter of factly, but she was speaking to Shields.

"And he needs to select better company," Shields answered, he didn't dare reach for his radio.

"Don't make this mistake," Grissom said softly to Shields, standing slowly with his hands up.

"This is no longer your concern," he responded. "Put down the gun and put your hands behind your head."

She smirked, "There are much more interesting things I can kill you with than my gun… are you sure you want me to put it down?" her voice was husky, almost sensual.

Grissom's brain rolled over their conversation like a script. Empty. The answer to everything. "Why did he go after Lindsey," Grissom asked her, hands still in the air, ignoring Shields.

"Mr. Grissom, step away!"

Her eyes were locked on the fed.

"Why did he go after Lindsey first?" Grissom asked again quietly. "I know why he's going after us, it's revenge to provoke you… but why Lindsey?"

She began to move toward Grissom, in the direction of the aisle.

"Kara… Neysa…" Grissom started. "Elina…" was the ace in his deck. "Elina is Latin... for pure."

Her forehead twitched, she was closing the distance.

"A young missing girl's profile was on Nick's computer. Her name was Elina."

"You're not going to leave here," Shields said to her darkly, his finger was tensing slightly on the trigger. "Grissom, move toward the door now! You are compromising this arrest!"

"Do you have a daughter?" Grissom asked under his breath as she got close enough to touch him. "Is that why did he got someone to go after Lindsey!"

Shields' gun followed her.

"Stay out of this Grissom, move toward the door! Now!" Shields demanded.

"Did this man take your daughter?" Grissom asked. "He kidnapped your daughter," his eyes made the connection. "…she's still alive isn't she?"

Her aim swiftly moved to Grissom's temple.

His breath halted in his chest.

"Move…" her voice was deadly, eyes still on Shields.

Grissom took a step out into the aisle and she slid around him, assuming the hostage stance. His heart throbbed in his chest.

"Rorye…" Grissom started. "Don't do this."

She started backing toward the exit, the gun pressed tightly to his temple as she pulled him with her. He felt her pull his beeper from his side and slide it into her belt. Shields hadn't seen it.

Shields was following her with his aim. "You have nowhere to go. LaFave picked up Nick at your apartment several minutes ago!"

Grissom felt her shoulders tense.

She fiercely shoved Grissom forward, firing three shots into Shield's vest. Shield's gun went off, striking a spotlight with a sharp spark. Grissom covered his head as he hit the ground, carpet digging into his elbows.

Shields crashed against several seats, coming to rest between the rows, his gun sliding down the deck under the seats and out of his reach.

The mag light spun in a circle in the middle of the aisle.

The door closed sharply, the sound of her footsteps at a flat out run through the lobby and out the front doors.

"I'm okay!" Shields snapped, wheezing. He groaned; sucking in a breath as his fingers touched the blistering hot rounds stopped by his vest. Snarling, he pushed himself to his feet.

It's not you I'm worried about," Grissom's voice was fierce as he pulled out his phone and dialed Brass.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Nick couldn't breath, his face felt like a giant bruise welling to the surface. Blood pooled on his lip as he rolled it through his teeth to stop the bleeding. He was covered in glass; the hiss of several radiators going off, the airbag in the front seat deflating slowly. It took a moment to figure out what had happened.

They were on their way to the station, he was in the back of an unmarked fed's car.

They'd been hit from behind, forced into an intersection.

He remembered spinning and screeching tires, his stomach lurching as he fought to keep it down. The back of his skull still swirled in a dark fog, eyes focusing on the van that held LaFave's backup on it's side across the intersection. It was almost completely sheered in half by a dump truck.

Sucking in a huge breath, the scent of smoke suddenly became strong, a flicker in the front end of the car catching his undivided attention. His fingers groped for the door handle out of instinct. He was in the back seat of an unmarked car, there wasn't any; realizing with a tug his left arm was pinned between the passenger side door and the seat.

"Hey!" he slammed his free hand against the wire cage in front of him, the fed slumped to the side in the front seat.

He yanked furiously at his arm, neck muscles straining as he pressed at the back door with both feet, sharply aware of the increasing orange flame. His shirtsleeve began to tear, the cloth snarled in a mess of metal and shattered plastic. It finally gave way, and he tumbled backward, his hand throbbing. Something felt broken.

Climbing through the remains of the back window, he slid onto the pavement. Sirens wailed in the distance, several other drivers emerging from battered cars. He leaned into the driver side window.

"Hey! We need to get out of here!" He reached in with his good hand and opened the door from the inside, covering his mouth with his sleeve and coughing heavily. "LaFave!"

Gut feeling suddenly drove him to pull LaFave's gun from his holster, even before he saw the bullet hole in the side of his head. He'd been shot during the accident.

Only two people he knew of could make that shot, and he prayed to hear the voice he knew in his gut he wasn't going to be there.

He backed away from the car, sliding the safety off, scanning the chaos in the street.

"You have a gun in your hand again and still you don't fire."

He knew that voice, every muscle in his body tensed at the same time. He turned quickly, too late against the sudden barrage of fists and metal. Hitting the side of the car with extreme force, his hand was pinned against the car, a guttural growl of pain becoming a scream as a knee pressed into his gun hand. He refused to let go of it; his good fist flew hard, coming in contact with someone's mouth, a spurt of blood signaling the dentist had a new client, following up with a elbow into someone's ribs.

There were too many.

Several knees to his stomach knocked the breath from his lungs, an upper cut to the jaw sending him into blackness.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Too late.

She paced quietly through the scene, EMT's and firefighters rushing past her as she remained amongst the gawking crowd. Loose locks of her unstraightened dyed curls wafted gently in front of her face, tickling her lips as she searched frantically. She didn't care anymore who saw her.

Arms crossed, a chill through her shoulders even though sweat trickled at her temple.

The blood in the back of the unmarked car made her frown, the dead fed in the front seat signaling they had what they'd come for.

They had Nick.

She chewed at her thumbnail, thinking quickly. Her keys flipped out, making a beeline to her car. This was no longer an internal matter; it was an all out war. The feds would sequester anyone in danger immediately; they were good for something. The hardest person to secure would be another target before they could circle the wagons.

Brow frowned, Nick was probably still alive, but not for long. He would have to fight back for now.

Because Sara couldn't…


	18. Wheezin' the Juuuice

"Everyone stays in this building until given further instructions."

"Where is Sara?" Grissom demanded. "Sara is still at the hospital?"

"Yes, and she'll stay there. We're done here Gil," Ecklie slapped a file on his desk. "The feds will take care of this," he looked to Shields, who was standing near the door with his arms delicately crossed. "They're protecting Sara and they're trying to locate Nick."

"I don't consider losing Nick taking care of anything!" he hissed. "And if they were doing their jobs, he wouldn't be missing!"

Several faces down the hall looked up. Catherine was pacing in the break room with her arms crossed, chewing on her thumbnail. He could see Warrick turn toward Ecklie's office, his lips moving to say something to Catherine as they watched the altercation.

Grissom moved over and slammed the door shut, glass rattling. "Last year we were told the same thing, and they supposedly took care of it! Now Nick is once again **_gone_** and we don't know if he's alive and Sara's still in the hospital!" his finger was pointed sharply at Ecklie.

"Maybe Nick should be more careful of the company he keeps," Ecklie quipped sarcastically, picking up the folder again to open in. "Shields has everything under control. We're done here."

Grissom grabbed the folder, throwing it to the side.

Ecklie watched the papers flutter to the floor, glaring at him.

The look on Grissom's face was incredulous, finger tapping heavily on Ecklie's desk to make his point. "We put our lives on the line every day to find the truth. All you have to do is make sure we're safe so we can do our jobs!" His anger turned on Shields. "I've worked with you all before, and have yet to be impressed…" his voice was thick, low, and full of fury. He threw the door open and stalked down the hall.

"Where are you going?" Ecklie demanded, moving after him.

"To make sure Sara is okay… and…" he turned as he kept walking, "I'm going to find Nick the old fashion way, I'm gonna look."

"This is being taken care of!" Ecklie matched his extreme tone, grabbing his arm. "All you have to do is stay put!"

"Being taken care of?" he threw his arm off and kept walking, then turned suddenly, glaring at Shields with his finger in his face. "You and I both know that this has gone too far, too many innocent people have been killed because you didn't finish the job," his voice was hushed, but angry, flipping out his keys. "If I have to take the step forward to make sure my people are okay, then so be it."

"At least let Shields go with you" Ecklie hissed. "You leave this lab and you are taking your life in your own hands."

"It seems that while you've been pushing paper, it's been that way all along," Grissom pulled his glasses off roughly and moved toward the door. "Heaven forbid you get your hands dirty. And Shields? I'll pass, I feel safer in the streets by myself."

"Grissom, you can't leave here," Warrick stepped around a fed to stop him in the hall.

Grissom shook his head. "I'll be fine."

"Nick was with these guys and he's gone!" Warrick grabbed his arm, voice lowering as he glared, waiting for Ecklie and Shields to back off. "Don't do this."

Greg and Catherine stood at the doorway; Lindsey was asleep on the couch. His eyes wandered over them, then to Warrick's arm, finally back to his eyes.

"Somebody has to," he lowered his voice. "I have to."

"At least let them take you."

"That's what they'll be looking for. I'll be fine," he glared toward Ecklie, then looked toward his people. "The car we recovered from the scene after Sara was…" he let it trail, refocusing and speaking under his breath, low enough for only Warrick to hear. "You said there was nothing there, no prints, no fibers, no nothing. There has to be something. Find it. Derrick is connected to this guy."

"The same asshole last year from the DeMonte case?"

Grissom nodded once. "I have a stack of information that Sara found afterward in the bottom locked drawer of my desk, tell Catherine to get it. It might help."

Warrick ran his hand tightly over his face, hand on his hip. "They said it was taken care of."

"They lied. Find it. Get the feds, get Ecklie to help you if you have to, but find it. Call me. Nick is somewhere, and I guarantee you Derrick has been there. He's the only link we have to Nick," he said. "Get Regina to talk."

"If anything else happens, I'm making sure Ecklie takes the heat."

"Nothing else will happen," Grissom snapped. "I'm not going to let it," he finished, turning to Shields and Ecklie. "I'm going alone," he snapped, walking toward the front door.

Warrick's eyes narrowed, glancing to Catherine, a slight tilt to his head as the subtle communication beckoned her to follow him toward lock-up.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Sara's eyes cracked slightly as she lazily yawned, "What are you doing here?"

Grissom shrugged, leaning forward in the chair, eyes looking toward the door as he lowered the paper and set down the pencil.

"Just keeping track of you in case you get into trouble."

"Me? Never," she pulled the blanket up slightly, blinking at him, one eye obscured by the soft pillow. She smiled slightly. "No aftershave this time?"

He half smiled. "You know I don't wear that stuff, interferes..."

"Yah, so I've been told. How's the case?"

"Dead."

"Wishful thinking?" she licked her lips gently, reaching to her foam cup and shifting to take a drink from the straw.

His smile widened.

"So update me."

A nurse entered as he leaned forward, clutching the paper.

"Not much to update," a sigh seethed through his nose, his eyes traveling to the door again. His lips turned grim, brow lowering as he went back to his crossword puzzle. It was helping him focus, allowing him to think clearly while he had waited for Sara to wake up. The thought of what was happening to Nick brought a flush of pain across his forehead.

Sara watched his face, the tell tale signs of a migraine washing over his features. Her attention turned back to the nurse.

"Hi," Sara said softly. "There's so many of you guys… I can't keep track."

"I'm Donna. Tell me where you're hiding the gold?" she smiled as she picked up the chart at the foot of her bed, checking her vitals and recording the information. "Getting in here was like trying to get into Fort Knox."

"Grissom, what's going on?" her forehead wrinkled suddenlt. "Is everybody okay?"

He tilted his head obscurely, neither confirming nor denying her statement, pursing his lips as he nodded slightly toward the nurse, looking over the rim of his glasses. Grissom's eyes moved from the nurse back to Sara. "We can talk about this later."

Donna checked the bandage, tilting Sara's head slightly to the side.

"Where is everybody?" Sara asked Grissom. "I haven't seen anybody since yesterday."

The nurse set down the chart, smiling to Sara. "Is there anything that you need?"

Sara shook her head, "My walking papers?"

"Not quite yet, the doctor wants to keep you another night for observation."

Sara nodded, watching her leave and close the door. "Spill it," she glared at Grissom. "C'mon Gris, I might be a little off, but I definitely know when something is going on," Sara said as she shifted to sit up, poking viciously at a leftover bowl of green jello with a spoon. "They moved the other patient out of here about a couple hours ago, I'm alone. I noticed there were more cops at the door; I thought I saw a suit. There are feds now aren't there? Grissom, what is going on?" her expression was moving from curious annoyance to worried anger, she leaned up further, resting her elbows on her knees and eating a spoonful of the jello.

Grissom sighed heavily. "Warrick, Greg, Catherine, Lindsey and Sophia are sequestered at the station. Nick's garage was set on fire, most likely to cover up a crime that was intended to happen at the same time."

"Oh my god, Nick?"

Grissom drew a slow breath before he removed his glasses. "Nick was being transported to the station and they were in an accident."

"What?" her voice was breathless, tears had already started to brim on the edge of her eyes. "Is… he…"

"We don't know, that's why I need you to talk to me, go over this with me, logically."

Her feet suddenly slid over the edge of the bed and she started to stand up. "Screw this, you guys need me at the lab."

"I know you're worried about Nick…" Grissom looked crestfallen, leaving it where it lay. "Sara, I need you here. Untainted by what everyone else has told you, a fresh perspective. Every minute we spend here is another minute Nick is gone. I need you."

She bit her lip, nodding slowly, eyebrows pained. "The evidence isn't speaking to you."

"It is, and it's pointing me exactly in the direction it's supposed to."

"And the problem is?"

"Manufactured evidence is perfect. This is perfect. Every loophole is covered, and it closes perfectly. That doesn't happen."

"In reference to Regina?"

He nodded, temple leaning slightly on his fingers. "What we now have is four kids who are barely old enough to consume alcohol paying the ultimate price for the actions of two others who exploited their naivety."

"And that's what the evidence says?" she kept stabbing at the jello.

"Yes."

"And the problem is?" she pursed her lips, pushing the jello away from her.

"They were bait, they were bait to draw the rest of us out so that our deaths would also look like an accident."

"And that's what you believe, but not what the evidence suggests?"

He nodded slowly.

"It's her isn't it?" her voice was barely there.

He blinked slowly, nodding again.

"You know…" she began, "when I first met her, I knew something was odd…" she let it hang.

Grissom blinked slowly.

"Nick's not gonna make it is he?" there were tears in her eyes, fingers running through her hair as her elbows rested on her knees.

His face softened, eyes finding the floor incredibly interesting before building up the confidence to look her in the eye. He felt his phone vibrate lazily on his hip. He'd left it on, but not on purpose.

"I need to take this," he said softly, stepping out into the hall and searching for a place to make a call. "Excuse me," he asked a nurse at the station, "can I make a call from here?" She nodded and he flipped his cell open. "Warrick?"

"Yah. Hey, we got nothing."

"Dammit," Grissom swore under his breath. "You dusted the entire truck?"

"If this big man is involved, there's no trace of him anywhere. I also didn't find any place of residence, credit cards, nothing. Bobby had a place, he seemed the scapegoat."

"It's his job to be invisible, and he's good at it. You're finding nothing, and that means he's there, we're moving up the food chain, and Derrick was the right hand man. What was in his wallet?"

"Some cash, a receipt from a corner store for a slushee, nothing else. The feds are breathing down our necks."

"Good, that means you're moving in the right direction. Where'd he buy the slushee from?" Grissom looked up at Sara's door as he listened, Donna moving in again with a plate of food. The fed checked her ID and she moved in, closing the door. "That's only a couple blocks from the station. What's the date?"

There was silence from the other end.

"The same night Sara was attacked, the time stamp is an hour before Officer Greene radioed for backup."

"He was casing the station. He was going to kill Sara, and was botched when he discovered the other hit taking place," he started, watching the nurse exit several moments later and pull off latex gloves after closing the door. She spoke with the fed at the door, and disappeared down the hall . Frowning, he ended the conversation as he walked toward the room. "We need to find out where he was meeting this guy. Screen everything, shoes, tires, clothes. Look for dust, paint, I want to know everything down to what he brushed his teeth with. I want a report what you find in an hour." The phone clicked shut and he showed his ID, pushing open the door.

Sara's curtain was drawn, the light flickering slightly from her TV beyond it, casting a strange light through the dark room. He walked toward it slightly, leaving the door open.

There was an eerie stillness to the room.

"Sara?"

Silence.

In a frenzied flash of slow motion, he didn't remember breathing, blinking, only screaming for the feds and surging forward to throw the curtain open. Her face was pale, eyes vacant, her lips soft against his as he frantically pulled the twisted plastic tubing from her neck and breathed life into her. The screech of squeaky nurse shoes as the room was rushed, the sound of her body jerking under de-fib pads, the shriek of a flat line scouring every last thought from his skull as he stood there after being pushed aside, helpless, watching the rush of EMT's and Sara remain as he had found her.

Still.

Lifeless.


	19. Veritas

Sniffling.

The sound seemed to flicker in the back of his mind for an unusually long time.

His hair ruffled gently, like a flutter against his forehead. He kept brushing it away with a flinch, until a gentle tug began to pull at his sleeve. Cheek mushed into a hard wooden floor, he began to come back to the land of the living. His blood had dried where he lay, sticking his cheek to the floor as it pulled at his skin; a sharp smell of ash invading his nostrils as he finally took a long breath.

It was dark, but not completely, methodical ticks from ancient pipes pinging through the extreme heavy silence of the room. A tiny hand touched his face and he jerked unconsciously, surprise and pain at the light caress.

Muscles screamed in agony, his face once again resting on the hard floor. It hurt too much to move, his brain still shivering in his skull. There was no focus, no response to his sudden muscle urgings.

Again the sniffling invaded his wan consciousness.

"It's okay…" the voice was a gentle one, a slight lilt on the edge. "It's gonna be okay sir…"

Again the light caress at his hair, the attempts to comfort him. Trying to clear his head, his finally opened his eyes to pale darkness; the ash seeming to form a gray haze on his eyelashes. He moved his hands, a distinct grunt of pain as he confirmed something was still broken, swollen and now handcuffed behind his back. The world felt heavy and oppressive, hopeless.

"My hand is broken," he said softly, finally finding his voice.

Tiny, warm hands moved to his wrists, feeling over the large and angry bruise that had engulfed the back of his hand.

"We have to get this in front of you," she continued.

Rolling to his side, he leaned forward slightly and tucked his knees to his chest, pulling his cuffs over his feet and in front of him with gritted teeth and the help of someone he couldn't quite see.

He lay there for a long moment; trying to ignore the heavy throb of pain, head still not quite focusing on the world.

"It's okay…" petite gentle fingers again smoothed the blood-matted hair on his forehead.

He blinked to clear the salty dried blood from his eyes, trying to focus on the girl's face in the shadows. She couldn't have been older than Lindsey. He started to sit up, his feet sliding to give him leverage. Breath was short and pained on his lips.

She paused a long time, picking up on it. "It won't hurt for much longer."

"Why?" he asked, listening intently to the sirens in the distance, trying to gage their location as he pushed himself against a wall with his feet.

"They brought in another blue tarp today…" her face turned to gesture to the empty floor toward the far wall. "…and laid it next to mine."

Her words were almost too horrible to imagine.

Lips parted slightly, "Who did?"

"My father."

He wasn't hearing this. This couldn't be true.

She sniffled again. She'd been crying, for a long time. Dainty fingers reached across the distance to smooth his hair again.

"But it will be all right," she smiled slightly. "It will be quick. He told me it would be quick."

He stared at her in the darkness, dread creeping into his chest. "Who are you?" he asked breathlessly, twisting slowly at the cuffs as his stared at her through the darkness.

A glitter from the whites of her eyes caught his attention. She had begun to cry again, her voice still holding the calmest of sentiment as she answered him quietly.

"I was going to ask you the same question."

"Nick, my name is Nick."

She shook her head slowly in the darkness. He reached slowly to touch a ringlet of hair stuck to her face.

"Elina," he said simply.

She looked to his hand slowly, then back to him, confusion sliding across her features.

"Elina, where is your mother?"

"I don't know," she pursed her lips, anger flickering over her forehead. "My father told me she didn't want me."

"I'm going to get you out of here."

"How?" she asked. "They're armed."

Soft eyes blinked softly at him, then suddenly sprung with tears as he rolled forward to stand with a stagger. His stomach was tightening, threatening to spill its meager contents. Her hands were in a vice-like grip on his arms, trying to keep him vertical.

"You know my mother don't you…" her voice was almost inaudible, more a statement than a question as tears started to slide down her cheeks. "You know her!"

"Yes," he said darkly. "And she does want you, more than anything in this world. But you've got to stay strong with me, okay Elina?"

Her hand let go of him briefly to wipe her eyes with the back of her hand as they walked toward the far wall. She nodded furiously, flinching slightly as the blue tarp crinkled under their feet.

Another siren wailed in the distance. He looked up, staring into the darkness of the ceiling, studying the shadows.

"I know where we are," he said breathlessly.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

It took a moment for the vibration to register.

He blinked slowly, looking to the cell phone in his hand before answering it.

"Ash," Warrick said across the line. "We found very fine ash, traces of lead based paint and very small chips in white, small pieces of crushed colored glass. They were so trace they almost didn't exist."

Silence.

"Grissom?"

"Yah," he said softly.

"Look, I'm sorry."

The silence lingered again.

"No change?" Warrick asked slowly.

"No, I'll call you if anything does."

"All right, take care of yourself."

The phone beeped, remaining in his hand as the reflection of the monitors mirrored in his glasses.

She looked so… lifeless. The slow, steady beep hypnotic, the ventilator pushing her chest up and down gently. It was beyond visiting hours, the darkness of the room oppressive, the silence of the halls eerie.

Perhaps he was numb.

"Ash," he said particularly to himself.

Hands gently rested on his shoulders. He didn't bother to ask how she'd gotten in, he didn't want to know.

"I failed you."

"If you'd failed us, most of us would be dead."

"If I'd done my job, she wouldn't be here."

He turned slowly in his chair, the dark anger on her face chilling to even him. The things she'd seen, done, seemed… suddenly unimportant to him. They seemed tools, necessities, a means to and end.

It disturbed him to even think it.

"They found ash, paint, colored glass," he began.

"The sign graveyard."

He sighed with a seethe. "No, I'm missing something, I can't think," his fingers rest on his forehead.

A long moment passed, pregnant with fear. It rode over the room, stifling. She wasn't going to deny his fear.

"They're going to kill him," she said quietly. "They're going to kill him to get to me."

He nodded slowly.

"I'm sorry I couldn't protect you."

A pulse ticked in his jaw as he clenched his teeth. "I'm sorry that you feel as if we're your responsibility," his eyes met hers. "This isn't a sugarcoated world. We can't believe that we just can wear a Kevlar vest every time we're in danger and think we're going to come home to dinner every night unscathed. We are responsible for the evidence to put evil men behind bars, and it's naïve to think that we'll always dodge the bullet of revenge." His face grew dark, withdrawn.

"You don't need to make me feel better."

His lips softened slightly, the edge of a smile.

"I can see why they are so fiercely loyal to you. They are lucky to have you."

"Then why can't I think of anything?" he suddenly demanded.

Her brow furled as he got up, hands running through his hair as he looked at her neck.

"Of course, of course!" he reached to lift the rosary that was glinting on her neck, tangled slightly in the silver chain of another necklace. "The receipt, the ash, the glass, the lead paint!" His thumb dialed sprung his cell phone to life as he turned away from her. "The church Catherine. The old cathedral two blocks from the station!"

He turned suddenly.

She was already gone.


	20. In Nomeni

Darkness burned in her eyes, the city lights twinkling in moisture that had pooled in the corners. Numerous unmarked cars had taken position in front of the burnt out cathedral, their wane lights twirling as the police had put on a more impressive display at both ends of the street to barricade off the block.

"You don't have to do this," Grissom said sharply as he got out of a car. "Rorye, don't do this."

"Yes, I do," a reassuring smile softened the corners of her eyes.

"Then why wait for us to get here?" he asked, expression darkly suspicious.

"Take her into custody," Shields snapped, climbing out of his car and pulling his gun as he motioned an officer.

A yelp proceeded the snap, the officer's neck tensing as she twisted his arm behind his back. "Because you need to know the truth," she answered Grissom but glared at Shield. "Listen to me," she hissed. "Or, you call the paramedics to treat a severely broken arm."

The uniform seethed in a sharp breath as she increased the pressure.

Shields was stoic, the snap of a gun aimed toward her forehead. Her eyes narrowed looking to Grissom.

"Five years ago, we were hired by…"

"Jesus! That's classified!" Shields growled, taking a step closer to two-hand his aim. "I will shoot you in the interest of national security!"

"Hired to do what?" Grissom asked intensely.

"STOP!"

"Hired to kill a foreign dignitary," she increased the pressure on the officer. His neck strained, an audible cry of pain escaping his lips. "In exchange for new identities, in a new country, and ten million dollars."

Shields fired suddenly, the officer grunting in pain as she swiveled his body to catch it safely in the vest before crashing to the ground. Shields audibly screeched, the muzzle of his own gun at his temple in his own hand. She had slid a knife under his vest, cold against his flesh, her other hand pressing the gun into his forehead. Every gun had snapped to attention.

"Who is he?" Grissom asked, hands out to hold off the guns.

"It was great, for a while. I was done, we were done. I could go on with my life. Then I realized who he was. Found things, saw things. He had other children, from other women. He took money from the family of the deceased, to kill me. Took my daughter and ran here."

Grissom cast a sharp glance from her to Shields, and then back again.

"All this time, years I've spent looking for him, the man who killed my father, and my daughter. The man that hired him. The feds refuse to help because they bungled. The only reason they are here is to protect their secret. They're not here to save your people, they're not here to save my little girl, they're here to protect their mistake. They're here to make sure I take out what's left, or lead them to him. They'll claim I'm the enemy, while waiting for me to finish their job."

Shield's face fell.

She pushed him roughly to the ground, sliding the safety on his gun and the knife back to the sheath at the small of her back.

"If you want to shoot me for that, than so be it." She tossed the gun to the ground next to Shields. "But you went through an awful lot to bring me back from the dead, we wouldn't want to waste your money."

"What do you have to finish?" Grissom asked.

"They're both here, the money is a whale, here in Vegas but we don't know who, we don't know where. The other is the man that's been wreaking havoc on your people."

"Formerly known as Ricker," Grissom started, finally lining up all the puzzle pieces. "…your former partner in crime, your husband, and Elina's father…"

The weight of her eyes was excruciating.

Shields caught his breath. She smiled at him slightly, pulling her own pistol from its holster and walking into the street.

"Stop her!" Grissom tried to push through the officers.

She paused in the middle of the street, looking up at the giant cathedral. The swirling police lights reflected from broken stained glass windows. Holding both hands up at her sides, she set the gun on the pavement. Removing the gun at her ankle, she did the same thing, followed by the knife. She turned in a circle, pausing a moment to look at Grissom.

"You don't have to do this," he said, darkness to his voice.

"Thank you. I'm so sorry I had to drag you into this," she smiled slightly, a heavy tear flipping from her eyelash and down her cheek. "I left something in your desk drawer."

"How is this going to help?!" he demanded.

"I know how he works. They're no deals to be made here. No negotiations. Nick, Elina, if he hasn't killed them already, they'll be inside. With me out of the way, he'll have what he wants. You _have_ to figure out the rest."

"There has to be another way," even as he said it, he knew there wasn't one.

"I wanted you to know I'm not a monster," her voice was barely audible.

"I never thought you were."

There was a long pause as she seemed to comprehend it. "We're out of time."

His brow furled as she turned back toward the cathedral and walked toward it, arms up. She could feel eyes on her, watching from inside the building. The weight of her steps made the path seem longer than the years it had taken to get to this point, all this time, saving her daughter yet never able to see her again. Pushing the heavy doors open, she closed them softly behind her.

The building was dark, silent, and oppressive. Her arms fell silently to her sides, the rosary spilling from her wrist to hang from her fingers at her side.

She wasn't alone.

Grissom could merely stare at the doors as they closed, lips parting slightly as a gunshot rang out from inside the cathedral.


	21. Ghosts and Angels

Warrick watched Catherine wander again toward the coffee pot as he ran his hands over his face. He fiddled with his cell phone, facts rolling over and over in his brain. They were all gone, everyone that could answer this mess was all gone or the top of the food chain and out of their reach. Getting up, he looked out the door and down the hall toward Ecklie's office, noting the feds chatting with each other several yards away. There were several of them, dark suits that seemed a bit too relaxed for the situation at hand.

"What are you thinking?" Catherine asked quietly, sipping on her cup of coffee. "I can see it on your face."

"I'm thinking that this has gone on long enough and I'm not going to keep sitting here and wait for my number to be up." His arms crossed tightly. "There is one person that can clear this up," he said under his breath, putting his back to the doorway. "And she's sitting behind bars in another room."

His eyes were dark, a heavy glance from under his eyebrows at Catherine. She warmed her hands on the mug, pressing her lips together in a thin line. She paced lightly, her eyes resting on Lindsey, who was watching TV and eyeing the game system that Nick and Warrick spent too much time on.

"You think Regina knows who is behind this?" she asked quietly.

"I think she knows everything. I think she knows who we're looking for and where he is."

Catherine drew a long breath, taking another drink of her coffee while looking over the rim down the hall. "Even if she knows, she's scared to death. She's never going to talk. The feds have probably terrorized her to death. She isn't going to talk to anyone."

"What other options do we have? Sara's in the hospital, Nick is who knows where. I feel useless just waiting here to find out bad news."

There was a flurry of activity in the hall suddenly, the feds quickly moving toward Ecklie's office.

"I'm going to pay Regina a visit," he said quietly and slipped out the door.

He ran his hand over his hair, keeping eyes to the floor as he tucked his hands in his pockets and moved inconspicuously toward the precinct. Signing in quietly, the holding area echoed the door that closed behind him. It was empty. He moved toward the last cell on the right, she'd been moved, his steps quickening as her form came into view through the bars. The walk turned to a jog, his voice piercing the silence as a dark puddle of blood became apparent beneath her cot.

"We need a medic!" his voice echoed. The uniform's radio crackled as he fumbled with keys.

Warrick's fingers gripped the bars tightly as he stared at the girl in the fetal position on her cot. She was holding her arms tightly to her chest, the blood that had spilled from her wrists hidden until it had begun to pool on the floor.

"Regina…?" he whispered through the bars as the uniforms pushed him out of the way and pulled the door open. "How could you not notice this?!" his voice raged before he clanged his hand into the bars across the aisle and ran his hands over his face. "Dammit!"

There was nothing. Over and over again the whine of paddles attempted to pump life back into her. Her make-up smeared eyes had been washed clean, her hair simply pulled back by a strip of loose cloth from the bottom of her pant-leg, the small metal piece from the rubber band that had pulled her hair back was still in her fingers. She had painstakingly flattened it, pressing the tiny sharp piece of metal into the supple flesh of her wrists to open the floodgates. She hadn't died quickly, the flush of life still at her cheeks even though the rest of her body was pale. Her face was so innocent, her tiny body engulfed by the jumpsuit that had ultimately become her death shroud.

Eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, the glitter of tears still on the sides of her cheeks.

He couldn't believe what he was seeing. The echo of the paddles was lost in his ears, the flurry of activity blurring in his brain.

It was over.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

_The sound seemed to reverberate into the rafters, small ringlets spilling across her cheeks. It was like the voice of angels, light and airy, filling up her chest as she gazed into the vaults of the painted cathedral. Light spilled down from the colored glass and onto her cheeks. It seemed magical, the sins of the world disappearing through a spray of color and brilliant light amidst the voices floating upward from the choir. Tiny hands wrapped in dainty little gloves held the beads in her fingers, watching her mother roll them over and over. She wiped the curls from her face, so distracted by the sound she was no longer concerned with fussing with her Easter shoes._

"_Why does it sound like that?" a tiny voice asked._

"_Because they're happy," her mother's voice said._

"_How can they be happy remembering when someone died?"_

_She was hushed quietly, "You'll understand when you're older…"_

The soft memory quickly gave way to the shadowed darkness, dust and steely smell of blood. The bright spray on her cheek was just as warm and a thousand times more sinister. Her breath had halted in her chest, the steely smell of blood and brain matter sharp as the droplets began their slow track down her cheek.

She'd flinched at the sound, not expecting it that quickly, her eyes opening just as a weight slumped against her shoulder and fell at her feet, gun clattering down the steps. Drawing a slow breath, her eyes opened to see the muzzle of a gun and the shadowed face of Nick down the gun sight. She blinked quickly several times, fighting a chill up her flesh. He'd just shot and killed the man who was about to kill her. Her face took on a pained relief, suddenly hardened by the reality if imminent mortal danger.

"You need to get out of here…" her voice was dark as she suddenly reached behind her to pull the door open again. She could already hear voices in the upper level of the cathedral, their heavy steps accelerating. "Now! I'm right behind you!"

Nick moved forward sharply toward the door, the terrified glare of a girl clutched close to his chest scathing her young face until a shred of recognition began to kindle in her eyes.

"Mom?" formed wordlessly on her lips. Neysa shook her head sharply as she took the gun from Nick and shoved them both toward the door, pushing them out into the barrage of swirling lights. Her fingers let go of Nick's shoulder as he scooped up Elina with handcuffed hands and fled down the steps of the charred cathedral with a distinct limp.

Her chest gulped in silent sobs as she watched them move across the street under the cover of rifles, FBI moving out to meet them half way and shield them. Nick cast a concerned glance over his shoulder when he realized she wasn't following.

"Don't leave her in there!" Nick screamed. Elina fought against her saviors, screaming for her mother with a tear stained face as she closed the cathedral door once more and was swathed in darkness.

Her shoulders straightened, face vicious, hearing the footsteps hit the scaffold landing in the sanctuary as she checked the clip and launched toward the sound.


End file.
